


Seiðmaðr

by GoldTrimmedSpectacles



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Divergence - Thor: The Dark World, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Reunions, Fluff and Angst, Loki Can Be Nice, Loki Can Be Sweet, Loki can be a little shit, Mutual Pining, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow Burn, Symptoms of past psychological abuse, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Viking Historical Themes, arguing like a married couple, hints of fake relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-11-07 17:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17964758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldTrimmedSpectacles/pseuds/GoldTrimmedSpectacles
Summary: Amidst the fallen brethren of the Vanaheimr war against Muspelheim, the dark prince of Asgard finds himself lost and riddled with amnesia. His words are barbed, his tongue is gilded and his eyes are sharp. He has no recollection of his name or family, but he soon comes to realise that perhaps it is best for the past to be shadowed by the future, and that life as a beloved commoner is better than life as a miserable prince.





	1. Eitr

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obnoxiousq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obnoxiousq/gifts).



> **Note: Loki will not remain the way he acts in this chapter, check the notes at the bottom to understand why :)**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Bjarke and Stigr will not be in all chapters. The story will continue to focus on the Reader and Loki's friendship/relationship development after this chapter.

_When I was a child, I didn't hear a single word you said_  
_The things I was afraid of, they were all confined beneath my bed_  
_But the years have been long, and you have taught me well to hide away_  
_The things that I believed in, you've taught me to call them all escapes_  
_\- Dear Wormwood, The Oh Hellos_  


__

_PROLOGUE_

__

Sour.

Decay.

He felt it seeping through his lungs – bleeding into his veins.

The putrid taste of vomit and blood, the aftertaste of meat rolling over his tongue, the churning of acid in his stomach. It was an assault of pure agony on his organs - his throat swollen in anticipation, saliva and mud caking his lungs.

Bleary and weak.

Eyes unseeing but knowing. 

There was copious amounts of red and black and green everywhere.

He couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t see.

He knew there were men dressed in armour. He could decipher the women wielding swords twice the length of their arms. He knew they would not move and would remain unseeing - blind to the world. Their bodies lay mutilated, torn like the trunk of a tree or the carcass of a boar, and their mouths hung open in silence. 

A plea to Valhalla.

He tried to move and felt the ground crumble between his fingers, dirt gathering beneath his nails and coating his skin in a film of blood, sand and sweat. He felt his hands twitch uselessly, pain shuddering through his left arm and into his shoulder, the ligaments fraught and cut. A whine left his lips, dry and cracked, and licked the blood from his teeth, followed by a shudder that shook his frame. He eased into a position of defence, knees curled under his stomach and his arm shaking with effort. His stomach rolled at the movement and bile spilt onto the forest floor, the echoes of owls and cattle calls taunting his weakness. 

He sobbed.

The pain racked his body and he buckled. The forest floor welcomed his return and greeted him with grazes on cheeks, bark and leaves entwining with his hair, and the calming sensation of dew-covered leaves.

He cried – his veins on fire.

The life in him dwindled as if his life source were ripped from his body - hot tongs tearing at his muscles and causing the skin to char and flake. There was no mercy, he understood. There was only pain and death, destroying him from inside until his heart stopped and the blood ran dry. 

He lay silently, body shuddering and moving sporadically from the pain, his mind reacting to an attack that his conscious could not fight. He wished that the Valkyries of Valhalla would merely open their arms, welcoming him with kind words and promises of eternal pleasure in paradise. Instead, he remained on the ground, the pain slowly subsiding as leaves tangled in his hair and the grazes deepened on his cheeks, all whilst the sweet relief of silence encompassed his being.

Eyes open, the cloudy irises cleared to show eyes cut from jade. The variations of green ranged from freshly hatched emeralds to molten malachite and waxed alexandrite. But amongst the clutch of gemstones, his eyelids sat heavy with blood and bruised skin, the veins decorating his whites running deep like canals, wide like valleys.

The world seemed hyper-focused, disorientating and harsh. The forest’s trees were jarring and bright, sunlight streaming in from the foliage and causing the leaves to blur into a mass of golds, greens and scarlets. He tried to move again, taking care to not disturb the remaining bile in his stomach, and positioned himself in to a crouch – hands shading his eyes from the bright rays of Sóls’ sun. His legs shook, toes curling into the dirt and his muscles forced him to rise. The sway of his limbs, the jagged motions of his movement, all contributed to the shaking of his injured self.

Supporting his body against a tree, he looked at his body and injured arm. The limb hung loosely now, elbow twisted and completely shattered at the junction between forearm and humerus. His remaining bones lay intact, however encased in fabric unknown to himself. Silk lined his sleeves, encompassed his legs, but the fabric it was sewn into was itchy and well-worn. Its smell was a mixture of dust and rot, the fabric frayed at his ankles and the hem coming undone from a single string. His shoes were in a similar state, with the soles both having been torn off and allowing his feet to greet the sharp floor that nature had to offer. The only cloth not stained or damaged were his gloves, for they were tough leather. 

These clothes, as customised as they appeared, were the garments of a working labourer and whilst the sole of his feet felt rough against the dirt, his body slender but armoured with muscle, his hands - though hidden under gloves - were smooth and untouched. Far too soft for the common worker.

A tear.

A strike of pain.

Agony tore at his brain.

Knees buckling, he did not fall to the ground but slid down onto his thighs, his calves scraping the ground roughly and tugging at healing wounds. The stinging pain distracted him from the shredding of his brain, the membranes snapping and realigning in a state of pain and insanity. 

He could not cry out, could not weep.

His mind, though scattered and confused, felt whole and then scrambled all at once. It was a constant pattern, as if something was infiltrating his brain and cutting out important information with a blunt knife.

A flood of panic filled him, and a flame erupted from his palms, engulfing his arms in flickers of green and white, the pain flickering just like fire. He knew the flame would threaten to swallow him whole, to hide him away from this pain and he welcomed it. The warmth of this magic was a stark contrast to the tearing sensation of his body. His eyes closed, the fire encasing his shoulders and replacing the pain with the touch of a mother, a caress, a healing prayer. He could no longer feel the pain of his physical body and as the fire encased his face, the sensation of bruises reduced to mere marks, his mind at ease with this new encounter.

The magic faded and his head hit the tree ungracefully – heavily.

He felt drained and sluggish.

Another lurch of pain and his eyes widened, his body collapsing into ugly and hard hacks. Blood seeped from his mouth, the fluid running down his chin and along his jaw, encasing his throat like the veins of a leaf. He coughed and retched, the mixture of blood and mucus forming welts in his mouth that he spat to the ground. There was no pain to accompany the stream of blood but a case of heaviness in his chest.

His body felt weaker now and his skin had become paler, the veins in his arms shimmering with a wavering gleam that pulsed with his heart. The green in his veins left ridges in his skin, arms painted with moss and ferns, then it was gone and black swelled beneath his skin. The warmth and comfort was replaced with animosity and fear, his skin no longer decorated with nature but tattooed with burnt charcoal and poisoned daggers.

The black lingered and then faded back into the canvas that was his skin.

Another lurch from his chest and black water poured from his lips and nostrils. He could not resist the overwhelming choking sensation, drowning in the tainted liquid, and let it fall freely. Tears accompanied the burning sensation in his throat and his mind fell blank. Spluttering, the liquid fell to the ground and with it the crumpled leaves on the forest floor shrivelled. The decaying leaves fell into pieces, the skeleton of veins left behind, and he watched with wicked fascination.

He felt the warm magic meld into his tainted blood, destroying and harnessing with a cold vigorousness. A sudden flush made his cheeks swell with blood and sweat dripped from his brow, the water lessening and leaving drops on his chin. He was too weak to wipe them away.

He could see no good outcome for this situation.

The corpses scattered amongst him held no solution and he wondered, what was it like to greet death so quickly and violently. To have such a fast end that not even their companions would recall their passing.

The liquid rushed back faster now, his stomach recoiling at the decimation of his system and bile began to rise with the black intrusion. He could not refuse the vomiting spell that overwhelmed him, the forest floor tainted by this wickedness that possessed him.

He cried earnestly then, reduced to a snivelling child with a stomach bug.

His body fell onto its side, his conscious seemingly separated from his physical form and watching from afar. The pain that began to swell once more was the only link that bound both mind and body together in that instance.

A voice rang clear through the forest and he wailed, glad that the final omen of death had come to him. The black liquid had dried up once more but now tinted the blood that streamed from his nose and tongue, he closed his eyes as he painted the floor with his innards and waited for Hel’s gatekeepers to collect him.

The voice approached, accompanied by another, and he let himself spiral into dizziness. 

He heard a gasp, the cling of metal on metal and with the will of his own spite, opened his eyes.

_CHAPTER ONE_

The stream bubbled sumptuously between your feet, your toes merging with the rushing sand and weeds - the sound of leaves and water drowning your senses. You watched, entranced, as the water twined between your calves and a school of fish swam by. The waters’ clear features gifted the sight of such beauty as the freshwater fish and weeds dancing as the bright rays of sunlight glimmered across the ripples of water that moved idly in your wake.

You smiled, eyes closed once more, and toes spread wide.

The grunting noise of two horses joined the cacophony of the forest, as did the grunting and groans of an impatient merchant.

“Bjarke, truly I mean no disrespect,” you turned, eyes open and gleaming with the reflection of the stream, “but if you keep eating our supplies in the manner of a _bilgesnipe_ ” - he grunted again - “I fear there will be no food left for our dinner tonight.”

The merchant sat obliviously on the bank, his red hair having grown untamed and bushy in his months away, and the bag of rations situated neatly between his thighs. His hands, though large and callous, were filled with thin cutlets of deer and elk - all being stuffed roughly into his mouth.

He muttered something between the bites, hands waving you off dismissively.

Both horses huffed at the movement, edging towards the water where you played, and eating the long grass that hung from the banks. You moved towards them, hands caressing their noses and rubbing their ears softly. Resting your forehead against the stoutest of the pair, the larger stallion made a noise of indignation and shoved his nose into your stomach. Your balance swayed, hands moving to grip the bridle that sat comfortably upon his head. 

“Thank you, Raoul. Your assistance is a blessing in disguise, apparently,” you glared at him and moved to cup his jaw. Scratching his chin, the stallion nuzzled into your shoulder and pushed more of his weight onto your body, pleading for your forgiveness. Giggling wildly at his actions, Bjarke seemed to have finished his portion of the meat and sidled up to his own horse, rubbing down Stigr’s flanks as your attention remained enraptured by your own horse.

“The sun is at high noon,” Bjarke commented soundly and altered the saddle on Stigr’s back. “I believe we best start walking, otherwise it will be too dark to reach our destination by sunset,” he continued and bounced, swinging a leg up over his stallion’s back and settling comfortably in the saddle.

You sighed, knowing his words were true, and began to climb up the bank, Raoul nudging your back affectionately as you reached the grassed surface. Petting him absentmindedly, you wiped the moisture from your legs and rolled down your trousers, securing them with a pair of thick riding boots.

Satisfied and somewhat dry, you moved towards Raoul and mounted his back – glowering as Bjarke chuckled at your struggle and sprawling legs. You knew that Raoul’s stature was not very advantageous when it was compared with your own height, often leaving you disorientated and irate when climbing onto him without any leverage, but he would have no other rider than you. And with that fact alone, you were stuck with the great brown lug.

Nudging Raoul into a slow trot Bjarke followed you at a similar pace, one hand resting on Stigr’s neck whilst his right held a compass that led him into the thick forestry.

“We are to head south of due east. Our arrival shall be an hour before Sol sleeps so that we may set up camp.”

The leaves scattered across the trail helped smoothen the walk, your thighs tightening as Raoul walked over the stony surface.

“And we are to be safe?” 

Bjarke nodded, hand tightening around the compass, and his other drifting towards the dagger strapped to his forearm. His dark eyes shifted then, scanning the surrounding area and setting both Stigr and Raoul on edge. You hushed the stallion, running a hand down his mane and settling into small, tight circles atop his shoulders.

“Despite the rise of bandits in these woods, I am sure that we will be safe for you have I, do you not?” Bjarke jested and sent a wink in your direction, his change in manner settling the two horses and your own nerves. “And we do not know whether the end of the war has lowered the numbers of such vagabonds – it could be there are none left,” he insisted.

The walk continued in silence, both Bjarke and yourself allowing nature to fill the lull of conversation. This companionable silence was welcomed amongst your pair, allowing daydreams and thoughts to fill your mind with questionable ideas and memories from faraway realms. It had only been little under a millennium since you had left Utangard, but the new surroundings and people had supported you in ways that had never occurred to you in your infancy. 

The daydreams were cut short by Bjarke turning a sharp left, leading his horse down a winding trail and into the darker parts of Vanaheim’s forest. You followed, Raoul taking the lead and keeping a few steps behind Stigr. Bjarke seemed confident in his approach to the darkening woodland, leading you in a manner that was either reckless arrogance or skilful navigation. You could not distinguish between the two.

It was at least another hour by horseback when Stigr turned skittish, his head tossing and turning towards the west. His panicked actions were mildly shushed by Bjarke’s calm nature, a hand pressed into his stallion’s neck and whispering words in the language of old. You came to ride beside them as the destination neared, your eyes darting towards each noise as the forest quietened and animals became rare in appearance. The weight of your arrows lay like a warning upon your spine, the strapped bow rubbing into your skin and leaving marks upon the coarse skin. Bjarke seemed similar in cautiousness, the dagger on his forearm having been moved to his dominant hand whilst the other kept a firm grip on Stigr’s reins.

Bjarke increased the speed of Stigr’s trot as you neared the clearing within the forest, forgetting the source of your stallions’ wariness and welcoming the idea of a good meal and sleep after a seven-hour journey by horseback. The ill sensation of fear and cautiousness still remained despite Bjarke’s joy, the dread creeping further up your back and settling like a vacuum in your chest.

“Bjarke –” 

“Do not fear, fauntkin,” he turned to you once more. His blade had returned to its sheath and Bjarke’s eyes glistened with warmth, his endearment blooming like a flower in your heart. “I shall protect thee with my bare hands and teeth, if it ensures your safety. You are what I protect and protect thee I shall – but only if you promise to make your rabbit stew when we settle,” he laughed. The crinkling skin around his eyes had your own lips upturning into a smile, laughter filling the surrounding silence and allowing some of your fear to diminish. 

As your movements slowed, your chatter joining the noise of owls and young elks, it was the sudden stillness of Raoul and Stigr that made both Bjarke and you jerk in the saddles. Their worried whinnies, their shifting of hooves and slow reverse forced your heart to quicken. Bjarke remained steadfast in his approach and convinced Stigr to walk, albeit slower, in the direction of your camp destination. 

It wasn’t noticeable at first, but your nose was suddenly overwhelmed when the scent of blood flooded your senses and Bjarke turned his face, hiding his nose under a handcloth kept in his sleeve. The overwhelming scent of rot and decay forced a gag from your throat, Raoul stepping back at your reaction, and you had to kick him once more to follow Bjarke. The reins slipped from your hands as he kept up with your companion, and you tugged the bow from your back, slotting it into an attack position with a hand on your arrows.

“We should turn back.”

The older man ignored your remark.

“Bjarke please – “

His movements stuttered to a halt and you were sure you had come to an agreement, but when your eyes turned from him to the trail ahead, you were sure the words were not the cause for his stop. 

A man lay dead on the track, eyes vacant and sullen in the decrepit skin that was once a handsome face. His hair was cut and shaven in places, mouth gory and bloody with his front teeth having been torn from his gums and his back completely torn open. Bjarke cringed away as the ridges of a spine peaked from between the torn muscles.

Dark auburn eyes met your own, the vacant space a reflection of what he had seen during the war, and Bjarke murmured low and desperate, “We cannot turn back now,” then turned around and continued, regarding the man with a prayer and a sign of peace before stepping around him. You followed the merchant, uncomfortable with separating from him at the sign of such death and animosity in unfamiliar surroundings. You copied Bjarke and whispered a quick prayer, hoping your sign of peace would welcome him in Valhalla and glancing at the body once more.

Wait.

“Bjarke, stop. There is a trail.” 

The large man slowed Stigr and faced your body, watching as your arm reached out and pointed at the crumpled leaves, dried smears of blood and torn mud that led beyond the trees. There were new fallen leaves that covered the trail and with the body at your feet, it occurred to you that this man had been alive no longer than two or three days prior.

You pulled the reins, Raoul turning at your request and walking towards the thick foliage. His hooves tread carefully as you lead him away from the path and towards the coiling pathway of the trees. There was no refusal as you began to lead away from the original trail, Bjarke having begun to follow Raoul and trusting your intuition as the dead man’s trail continued for a few metres. 

Ducking under the branches of a vine tree, your blood ran cold at the massacre that lay await of your companions.

A group no larger than a dozen lay in a small indent within the vast forest – their clothes those of warriors, albeit altered differently than those common to Vanaheim. Bjarke gasped from behind you, his feet creating a small thump as he dismounted Stigr and stepped towards the fallen warriors. You copied his actions, keeping close to the other as your backs faced one another, eyes searching for any sign of attackers.

“Fauntkin, keep close and check for survivors – we should not believe that all were killed before we have checked every single warrior at our feet. Although be wary, we may not be alone,” Bjarke spoke, breaking the silence and patting Stigr. He walked closer to the nearest warrior and dropped to his knees, flipping the woman onto her back and searching for any sign of life. Your eyes watered as the woman stared blankly at the thick foliage above, mouth open and in the shape of a wail.

Silently, you followed Bjarke’s instructions and walked over to the nearest warrior – his eyes unseeing and white with fear. Whatever had attacked them had been vicious and quick, unmerciful and brutal. His chest had been shredded into pieces and organs had been torn by the ferocity forced onto his being.

The pattern continued, finding warriors either fully destroyed and ripped open or silent, no physical injury in sight except for the blood that seeped from their eyes, mouths and ears.

Near the back of the group your eyes fell on a man, hair strewn like a halo and matted with blood. Half of his hair had been cut, the chunks either ripped from his scalp or sliced by a blade, and one of his arms lay twisted in a way that was completely unnatural. His clothes were not like the rest of the group, but rather they were common in appearance and ragged. The only fabric untouched were his gloves, but they were covered in blood that appeared to have streamed from his nose and mouth.

Looking closely at this man, your eyes widened at the freshly fallen blood around him, lips shuddering with pained breathes and wheezes.

Odin’s beard.

“Bjarke, quickly! Bring Stigr and Raoul,” you yelled hurriedly, adrenaline fuelling your system as both knees collapsed and your hands pushed back the hair that fell over the man’s face. You scanned for the lifting of the man’s chest, watching as his chest shifted with laboured breathes. The breaths seemed to increase at your touch and switching from the man’s body to his face you almost screamed as the previously closed eyes stared at you and dilated.

“Valkyrie,” he choked, tears streaming down his cheeks and eyes wide, pleading as he wept openly at your touch. “I am sorry for my actions –“ he begged, words spluttered from between the bloody streams falling down his chin, “for I do not remember my sins but know I have committed them.” 

“Shush, calm. I am here, I am here – do not fear,” you insisted and yelled for Bjarke once more as blood rushed from the man’s lips. “I am here – we will protect you. I have you,” you repeated in a mantra, the man weeping heavily as you crawled closer and wiped the tears from his face. He only wailed louder at your hands, the whites of his eyes reflecting his fear and regret from a life lived poorly.

The man babbled something unclear and frantic, his eyes wavering from your face onto a form behind you. He fell silent and wept harder now, clearly distraught and confused from the pain infiltrating his body as Bjarke looked at the injured man.

“Bjarke, we need to get him away from here – how far is it from here to the clearing?” The desperation lay thick in your words, the man sobbing louder. Bjarke swept in and cradled the man softly, his form long and lanky but not uneasy to carry. His arms cradled the man like a newborn, their injured arm draped securely over the man’s hollowed stomach.

“We must hurry, it is quicker on horseback, but I cannot run with him in my arms,” Bjarke explained, “So fauntkin, listen to my directions and get there quickly. When you find the clearing, create camp and find the healing herbs.” The steel resolve in his eyes was hard and concerned all at once, his grip tightening around the injured man’s arms. “I know it is not ideal, but I cannot fit him upon Stigr’s back. Would Raoul allow me to mount him and carry this man to safety?”

Pausing, you nodded and listened carefully as Bjarke explained the directions to your location. Grabbing both Stigr and Raoul’s reins, you gifted your companion the larger of the two stallions and begged Raoul to comply, the stallion having come to an understanding regarding the seriousness of the situation.

Nodding to Bjarke, you swung a leg over and settled onto Stigr’s back without a moment hesitation. Turning from your companion, who was easing himself onto Raoul with the warrior still in his grasp, Stigr began to move with a quick flick of your heels. The trees around you blurred as the trail returned and foliage grew slimmer in its coverage, the stallion at hand having made this journey many a time before. It was only a short while after when the clearing came into sight and you swung down from Stigr’s back, the horse panting at its fast pace.

With a quick kiss to his forehead and a stroke to his ears in thanks, you unbuckled the supplies from his back and allowed them to fall to the ground.

Scanning the series of woven mats, medical supplies and clothes, you gathered the thickest mat from the pile and laid it upon the ground near the centre of the clearing. Several blankets were used as a mattress and you offered fabric that was vaguely in the shape of a pillow. With another quick search through the supplies, you cursed that the food and water had been stowed upon Raoul’s back rather than Stigr’s. Instead, you took the herbs and medical supplies, stole a small bowl from one of the less used sacks upon the stallion and mushed the herbs into a thick paste with a pestle.

Forced to leave the paste beside the bed, you searched for rocks and quickly formed the base of a fire pit. As you began to stack sticks and twigs into an arch, Raoul came trotting up and Bjarke dismounted with the man still in his arms. With a sinking heart, you noted that the man was no longer sobbing and remained silent as Bjarke moved swiftly to the bed you had made. 

“He is weak and passed out on our way here – I do not know whether he will wake.”

Your places swapped once the man was settled, Bjarke having taken the position of fire stoker whilst you had swapped into the role of a healer. As Bjarke began to stack the wood and ignite a flame, you grabbed the water canisters from Raoul’s back and ran a hand over his flank in thanks.

The man’s breath had lapsed into shallow breaths now, each shuddering and shallow but thankfully the blood had stopped pouring from his mouth and nose. You noted how his eyebrows were crinkled in pain though, mouth formed into a cringe and muscles tense as you unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head. A whimper escaped his mouth as the sleeve caught his twisted arm and you whispered an apology before tugging the fabric completely off. Following closely after were his leather gloves, which were folded and left to his side. Inside there was a message embroidered in gold thread and you frowned, unsure what the message read. 

Then came his trousers, fastened with a knot and several buttons in a horizontal line. The knot was tied tight and seemed to cut deep into the man’s skin, pushing into what was an empty stomach, and the buttons appeared loose on his hips. You tried to untie the string but when that did nothing, you resorted to cutting it with a blunt hunting knife and slid the fabric down his thighs and off his feet.

Scanning the man’s body, you cringed at the scars littered amongst the skin, all whilst the new cuts and wounds stood out against his pale complexion. None seemed to be bleeding anymore, although some looked in need of disinfectant and stitches. Running your fingers along the ridges of his ribs, the skin ripped and puckered, you winced at how frail the man looked amongst the layered sheets and battered elements. 

Pouring water into a separate bowl you dipped a spare cloth into the liquid. Starting in small, circular motions you scrubbed the dirt from the man’s arms and followed the trail to his shoulders, taking consideration when it concerned his injured arm and allowed the disinfectant to seep into the deeper cuts marring his skin. 

You paused when the man whimpered.

Returning to the task at hand, you refreshed the water and squeezed excess liquid from the cloth, running it down the man’s chest and his stomach. The disinfectant was once again poured into his wounds and left to fight the bacteria that may have taken residence in his body. The pattern followed until his legs and feet were clean, then copying your previous actions, you cleaned the blood and grime from the man’s face – marvelling at the quantity of blood that had coated his cheeks and chin.

Concerning his hair, you could do nothing but brush it back and tie it into a low ponytail.

Proud that at least he would be protected from further infection, you sought out the needle and thread – ensuring that both had been cleaned – and began to search for the deepest of his wounds. Luckily enough, you were glad there were only two wounds that required stitching: one on his upper ribs on the left-hand side and the other on the back of his right calve.

Taking care to ensure the thread would not snap or leave residue within the cuts, you sewed the skin together and whispered an apology when the man groaned in pain once more. He had lapsed back into silence by the time you had finished both wounds, rubbing the herbal paste over the cuts and covering them with the thick bandage at hand. This continued for the next few moments, rubbing the herbal dressing over the remainder of his cuts and grazed skin with the bandages following closely after.

Bjarke had finished the fire by the time your job had been done, and he had begun to dice the cutlets of meat into small chunks. You watched his sluggish movements, careful and exact as he cooked a broth fit for the two of you. His eyes met your own and smiled, his crowfeet deepening as the fire strengthened the warmth of his rounded features.

Turning back to the man at your disposal, you watched as he rasped out small breathes of air and his face contorted into pain and back to neutral comfort in a constant loop. Grabbing the water cannister from before, you knelt close to his face and tilted his head back, opening his airway further and poured small amounts of water down his throat – pausing every few seconds and starting again when you were sure he was capable of swallowing.

The process was slow but eventually, the whole cannister had been finished and you were happy to know that the man would awake less dehydrated than when he was found.

“Fauntkin, it is time you eat and nourish yourself. He shall not wake any time soon and it will do you no good worrying for the remaining hours we have.”

Bjarke cut into your moment of silence and waved for you to join him, broth now done and steaming from two wooden bowls in his palms. He gifted the smaller of the two into your hands, the heat warming your fingers as the broth filled your stomach and you settled onto the ground near the fire, watching Stigr and Raoul graze by a nearby oak – their saddles having been removed and hung onto its thick branches.

Your meal continued in silence and when both bowls of broth were finished, your eyes returned to the man sleeping, his body unmoving as deep breaths caused his ribs to rise and collapse. His mouth was open now, air moving easily into his lungs, and he remained silent to the world. No sound of pain or discomfort escaped his chapped lips.

Bjarke watched the man in a similar manner. 

“Do you believe they were attacked by bandits or by dark elves?”

The question hung heavy in the comfortable silence.

“I do not know why dark elves would have travelled here,” Bjarke’s eyes darkened and he moved to collect the two bowls from beside the fire. “But I know for certain that those wounds were not of a common thief or bandit – they were cruel, and trophies were stolen from each man and women found at that camp. You can see it with how the man’s hair is cut – shorn down to his scalp on one side, but long and braided on the other.”

Both sets of eyes had turned to the man as he remained silent.

“He is lucky to have been found before his injuries caused him further harm. It is quite strange how he was the least injured of the group, however. His physical injuries are less critical than any of the other members of the group – and his clothes are a complete opposite to the armour that the soldiers adorned. It is quite strange, if I may say so. I am unsure if I trust him due to his peculiar circumstance. Who is to say that he was not one of the attackers and left behind by his companions?”

Bitterness hung on the edge of Bjarke’s tongue.

“We cannot know until he wakes, but I am sure he was not one of the attackers. His body is too frail and malnourished, almost like he had been starved prior to the attack. And you can tell that despite his clothes, there is something unnerving about the material inside of them – as silk is not awfully common among bandits and the poor.”

“You are quite right, and perhaps I am too quick to judge, but you cannot blame me for worrying over our safety in the hands of a complete stranger.”

Bjarke smiled and you grinned in return.

“His survival – do you believe he will wake?”

Bjarke regarded the man for a moment longer and turned to face you, eyes now blank as a hand settled on your knee. His smile did not reach his eyes and a sense of foreboding settled in your chest. He sighed and murmured something low and baritone, your head nodding along with his words and eventually, the two of you split and settled onto your own mats to rest.

Raoul made his way around the campsite, nuzzling your face once, and then returned back to were Stigr stood, sleeping. Bjarke had strapped their feeding bags on before dinner and you had taken them off just before bed.

With your eyes staring up at the stars, you wondered if the man was someone of importance to have been attacked so cruelly and violently. His lack of large wounds, unlike his companions, told a story that you could not understand in that moment of peace.

The man had been dressed in common clothes but beneath the worn fabric there were silks and embroidered fabric that were not the cloth of a working man, and his hair so long and free on one side had been encrusted with golden thread and beads (which you had removed and placed in a pocket within Stigr’s satchel). His gloves had also been embroidered with this thread in a language uncommon to most Vanir.

But, perhaps Bjarke was right? Perhaps the man was a bandit – left for dead by his own companions.

Turning onto your side, the dying fire lit up the man’s body and you stared. There was no significant sign of importance upon his body, his cheeks high and hollow, his nose long and regal. His hands were large but soft, having only the minimum amount of callouses on his fingertips and the top of his palm. His ears were also rounded, not pointed like those of the dark elves or their sister race. His face, however, was pointed and held nymph-like qualities, you noted, but were nothing unnatural or superficial.

He was merely a normal man.

Bjarke let out a loud snore and you turned to face the sky once more.

Perhaps tomorrow will offer the answers to all your questions?

You could only hope as the man slept silently by your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Overview:** Loki, who remains unnamed as of currently, has awoken amongst his dead companions in the middle of the forest. Heavily injured, he cannot move much and doing so causes him great pain and sickness. His magic has also been tainted and with it, his body is beginning to fail. Heavily distressed and confused from the pain, he cries and falls to the floor. As Loki thinks he is about to die, two people enter his parts of the woods.
> 
>  **Fauntkin** – Young child/one  
>  **Bjarke** – translation for bear, pronounced: _Byarh-ke_  
>  **Stigr** – translation for route, pronounced: _Stig-er_  
>  **Raoul** – translation for as wise as a wolf, pronounced: _Rah-ool_
> 
> 1\. This has been in the works for a while now, and I'm extremely excited over it! I love Loki and have always wanted to present my own twist on his personality.
> 
> 2\. Loki, right now, is not the Loki we know and love. It is merely for this one chapter and perhaps the next, but he will be back to his snarky and moody self in upcoming chapters :)
> 
> 3\. THE INTRO WAS SUCH A PAIN IN THE ASS TO WRITE. I KID YOU NOT. THE ENDING HAS CHANGED UP TO 4 TIMES NOW. IT'S DECENT NOW AND I'M KEEPING IT.
> 
> 4\. As this work continues it will gradually go up in rating, especially considering there will be eventual smut and a lot of dirty talk. No matter who he is, we all know Loki likes dirty talk.
> 
> 5\. The Reader's past is mentioned constantly and will continue to be mentioned often through small dismissive comments. It will be a while before their backstory will be told.
> 
> 6\. Hopefully, it's obvious but Bjarke and the Reader are not romantically involved what-so-ever. And they're not related at all either!
> 
> 7\. Keep an eye for references to Norse mythology as I'm throwing loads in constantly. Like, every other paragraph in all honesty.
> 
> 8\. I love comments!! Send me comments!! I will reply to every single one of them!!!
> 
> 9\. Find me on Tumblr: http://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> 10\. Buy me a kofi? - https://www.ko-fi.com/A045L7I


	2. Forsjá

_I can feel it on my tongue_  
_Brick and mortar as thick as scripture_  
_Drawing lines in the sand and laying borders as tall as towers_  
_I babble on until my voice is gone_  
_\- Constellation, The Oh Hellos_

_Chapter 2_

A series of spluttered sounds and retching welcomed your senses as you awoke. The sunlight streaming onto your face. 

 

Rolling away from the sound, you listened as the series of voices and rustling continued - Bjarke’s baritone voice hushing the source of the noises as he spoke softly and paternally. The unfamiliar whimpers of a higher pitch forced your thoughts to flood back in a hazed composition of sleep and wakefulness. Another retch and sob had your eyes wide open and your jumbled thoughts caught up in an overwhelming force of wakefulness.

 

Struggling to rise from the sheets of your makeshift bed, you sat up and caught Bjarke’s eye as he knelt at the side of your injured ward and propped said man up in his arms. Bjarke currently sat wiping bile from the man’s chin as tears streamed down their face. A look of mild guilt and warning crossed his features as you scrambled over to where they sat, legs tangled within the cloth that had become your blanket during the night. 

 

The stranger seemed to recoil at your disturbance, his body seizing up briefly before retching once more and falling silent, his breathing shaky as Bjarke shifted him and your hands moved towards the canisters of fresh water. With a slight turn of your palms, Bjarke graced your presence and settled the man safely between your thighs – his cheek resting on your left leg as to prevent any further choking. There was a series of struggling as the stranger denied this transfer between two carers but eventually settled, their eyes opening at the new warmth that came from your body. He regarded you blearily, his thoughts similarly tattered to his body as he watched, emeralds clouded with confusion and awe, and analysed your features.

 

There was a moment of caution, clear distrust, and you lifted a water cannister up to his lips. The shift of your arms and his body allowed the man’s eyes to roam from your face and towards the water. A flash of recognition flooded his eyes and he welcomed the water with large gulps. The man’s eyelids closed as the canister emptied down his throat and his breathing regulated once more – his body growing heavy in your arms as the wave of nausea passed.

 

“Bjarke” –the older man looked up– “remember the white willow bark. Do you think it would - ?,” you gestured to the satchels near the fire and swept an unruly curl away from the stranger’s face. “I can sit here a moment longer whilst he rests and to prevent any further incidents this early into the day,” you jested, “And perhaps once he awakens, he could - ? If you could grab it from the sack.” 

 

A look of knowing passed Bjarke’s features and he smiled ruefully at your attempt of humour.

 

“You are too soft on injured men, dear fauntkin,” he grinned with a hint of warning underlining his voice. The smile adorning his features did not reach his eyes as Bjarke glanced at the trembling man resting between your thighs. “But as of currently, you are quite right. The tree bark from Midgard would do wonders for this man’s digestive tract,” he nodded and smirked. “That is why I am quite surprised you thought of it.”

 

Scowling at Bjarke in return, you tossed the used cloth at the older man and he laughed good-naturedly, using your head as leverage to stand. He grinned once more, keeping a cautious eye on your ward as he moved towards the pot that held the remainder of last night’s dinner and the last of your herbal medicine. You watched as he then collected the clean dishes and ladle from where he had lain them last night, stoked the fire once more, and turned to rummage through the rucksacks.

 

“Bjarke, just to be certain,” – the older man turned towards you – “If it were not for our dear injured ward here, know for sure that I would have Raoul kick you.” 

 

Bjarke laughed once more and turned back to his fumbling. You grinned in reply and looked down at the man in your lap once more – studying his features and bandages.

 

Your good mood diminished quickly as your fingers grazed the blood that had seeped into his hair during the night. It was painful to see how his hair had been shredded and ripped so savagely to the point where the pores seeped blood and crusted over the roots. 

 

You grimaced at the chunks that had been torn and cut from the base. Miraculously, there were no bold patches but rather spots which were marginally shorter than the rest. It was vastly different from the black locks that tumbled from their upkeep on his far right.

 

In certain lighting, his hair seemed to shift into a dark green.

 

A mumbled curse and trembling caused your eyes to snap from their trance. Running a hand down your ward’s arm, the man gasped and pushed back against your light touches – straining for the light caresses and fighting against the simple skin-to-skin contact in unison. A husk of a voice rasped from his lips, both worn and on the verge of painful to the ears and throat. 

 

The injured man turned his face, eyes still clouded and confused, and caught your features once more. His pupils were shrunken, reflecting uncertainty and panic as he grimaced, jogging his arm from the manner that he twisted away from your touch.

 

Removing your hand, you relayed a series of shushing noises and calm reassurances. 

 

“Calm. You are safe. I mean no harm.”

 

His struggles increased and a series of grunts left his mouth. His spine bent unnaturally as he shoved away from your lap and his eyes appeared unusually wide and panicked in their frenzied state – too weak to move but too scared to ask for help.

 

_Odin’s beard._

_What had been forced on to this aching man’s body?_

 

“Stop it – Stop moving.” 

 

His struggling increased and the man attempted to rise from his position in your lap, obviously uncomfortable and confused in your presence. His arm was moved once more and he hissed waspishly at the sharp pain.

 

“Stop it, you oaf!”

 

The man froze at your domineering tone and he cowered back, braced in a manner that reminded you of an injured animal. His look of uncertainty had adapted itself into a form of apprehension and fear – watching you. 

 

Studying you.

 

“Stop moving,” your voice lowered and came out lighter. “You may reopen your wounds or aggravate the stitches,” you explained and allowed the man a means of escape by offering your arm, easing him into a sitting position within your lap. He began to writhe once more and you could do nothing but allow him the freedom to withdraw from your grasp and form a small distance between the two of you. 

 

You couldn’t help but sympathise with the man, his injured state an understandable case for his wariness and distrust when it came to you or Bjarke. He was obviously out of his element and unfamiliar with your healing prospects – still struggling when it came to his injured arm.

 

“Who - ?”

 

“Fauntkin?” 

 

As it appeared Bjarke had realised the situation a moment too late and the injured stranger whipped around, baring his teeth at your companion – retreating like a frightened animal once more. You began to move as the man rose to his feet, torso still bare from the bandages you had applied last night, and his knees buckled from the strain of his weight. 

 

You stepped forward instinctively at this movement, arms lifted to prevent any further harm, and breathed a sigh of relief as Bjarke caught the man in one sweep, cradling him like a child. His underweight form seemed to cause little to no strain upon Bjarke’s muscles and watching as the man thrashed in Bjarke’s arms, you could now tell how truly weak he was. His limbs looked like twigs and his torso, although much longer than Bjarke’s tree trunk physique, was almost concaved and stretched painfully thin over his ribcage. However, all was incomparable to the scars the littered his body – new and old. 

 

There were marks marred deep into his legs and torso – torn through muscles and skin to leave delicate cuts and skidded mars upon his back. His new cuts and torn skin joined the old scars like new branches and leaves, all connecting together to create a foliage of dark and light flowers.

 

“Put me down, you thick-headed heathen!” 

 

A series of coughs tumbled from the man’s mouth and his chest seized up with each contraction, his throat rough from lack of use and acid. It sounded like that of a dying bilgesnipe – torn and shredded in places. Barely cohesive besides the vowels in place.

 

Bjarke frowned.

 

“I will release you once you are not in danger of injuring yourself further,” he recited in a tone that had become far too familiar in your experience with the larger man. “Otherwise, I believe myself or Jorunn” – you groaned at the nickname – “will keep you still whether it be with our arms or through our medicine.”

 

The man stilled and his green eyes curved to regard you.

 

“Jorunn?”

 

Bjarke smiled impishly at this and lowered the man back onto the borrowed blankets and cloth. The stranger’s behaviour had receded, but there was still an air of cautiousness and distrust that came off him in strong waves. His hand also had come up to cradle his throat, pressing a thumb into the skin near his larynx as to stop the pain that his sore throat induced.

 

“Indeed. Lover of horses as she is, Jorunn is a fine name for our healer in residence. Lacks any social manner within society, but is perfectly amicable amongst livestock and travelling companions.”

 

It was comedic that Raoul would approach at Bjarke’s words, head resting upon your shoulder and in search of treats.

 

“Perhaps we should revert from nicknames, dear bear,” you taunted in turn and frowned when Bjarke smiled again – his eyes never wavering from the injured man. You released Raoul’s nose and knelt down, closer to the stranger’s current height and recited your actual name. 

 

“It is less remarkable than Jorunn, but it is mine.”

 

The man watched you a moment longer, eyes sharp like a serpent, and nodded. His mouth remained sealed and in watching his reaction, you were unsure if the lines around his lips had been their earlier or not. 

 

“Are you comfortable talking as of currently?” 

 

He nodded slowly.

 

“Might we ask your name?”

 

The green eyes went from you and back to Bjarke, their sharpness contrasting darkly against Bjarke’s own light brown. The man studied him a while longer and opened his mouth, lips curled into a sneer when they froze.

 

A wash of white ran through his veins and all colour that had arose vanished once more.

 

“I – I do not know.”

 

Panic flooded his eyes and the contempt he carried in aura switched to something ragged and sharp. A barrier seemed to break and with that, his emotions seeped out between the cracks. His hands arose in a fashion that seemed vengeful but froze and ran across his fingers like leaves, rubbing at his knuckles and their dips in silence.

 

“I do not know my name.”

 

His voice had inverted itself. The coarseness and shards that had torn his vocals to shreds were now stitching themselves up with a poison-laced thread. It was as wet as it was stained, and with the thread came a needle that was sharp and capable of more damage than good.

 

“I do not know – I cannot – It **hurts**.”

 

The wisps of pain in his words sent physical agony down your spine. The waspish resentment entwined with the physical pain that coincided in his throat was nowhere near the pain his being contained. His body was crumpled and curled, protecting his injured arm and skull with the bones that formed his being.

 

“It hurts. Why does it **hurt?** ”

 

His body trembled.

 

“What did you **do?** ” The spite dripped from his tongue like venom-dipped knives. His body shook with the pain that riddled his nerves, tears streaming from his eyes and his mouth open with heaved gasps.

 

Bjarke shared a moment’s glance with you and a sick realisation settled in your stomach.

 

Whoever had attacked this man was no bandit – they had no need for money or status. No, whoever had injured this man and his brethren were doing so purposefully.

 

No memory meant no witnesses.

 

And with no witnesses, there was freedom in a stranger’s death and suffering.

 

“Lie down, breath.” Bjarke settled himself beside the man and refrained from touching him. “We mean you no harm – we are but travellers who found you on our journey. Breathe. Collect yourself and listen to the world around you,” he spoke low and calm. 

 

The man’s breathing hitched, easing into a more constant state, and his muscles loosened.

 

“Acknowledge the birds and the wind and the trees – all which are here and are present. They are forces of nature that mean you no harm and with that, allow yourself to relax and welcome yourself into their embrace.”

 

The man’s crumpled form turned and unfurled slowly.

 

“You are safe by Sol’s maternal watch and with that, you should know that nothing can harm you. Nothing can touch you whilst she watches. The fae cannot reach you and Sol’s love will encompass you with her compassion and adora – ”

 

“Mother of Jormungand, please shut your mouth with such iridescent nonsense.”

 

Bjarke’s mouth closed.

 

You snorted.

 

_Did he really just –_

 

The man unfurled himself from his frenzied state and now sat up straighter. His form was poised and regal despite the injured arm still cradled to his chest. The panic that once resided had vanished and instead, was replaced with a prideful creature that inhabited his body and mind. His jewelled irises now contained a look of disregard and malicious intent within the folds of green, as did his mouth that formed an uncomfortable sneer.

 

With further attention, there was still a remainder of the stranger’s discomfort and panic, but it was well hidden behind his façade of pride and vacantness. However, the darting of his eyes said otherwise.

 

“Please do be quiet as I try to sanction my thoughts.”

 

The man’s eloquence was a surprising contrast to his appearance and raw voice. 

 

Silence enveloped the three of you as he took another shuddering breath, the shockwaves of pain slowly easing along his spine and nerves. He struggled it seemed, with teeth gritted together and baring a grimace that pulled at his taunt cheeks. The sickly under-shadow of his eyes created a distinct resemblance of the dead with the whites of his eyes baring pale veins and glistening tears.

 

He took one more shuddering breath and looked up.

 

“Your name,” all attention turned to your words, “You truly have no knowledge or the slightest idea of what it may be?”

 

The man shifted, fingers entwining and running over each other before stilling and falling to his sides. His muscles still tense.

 

“Truly, if I knew my history then I am sure we would not be having this conversation, now would we?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence and you reached over to gift him a water cannister despite Bjarke’s cautious look.

 

“Your history?” You met the stranger’s eyes once more and a battle of dominance seemed to initiate; both trying to measure the other’s reaction. “You are saying that without your name – there is no recollection of your past or current life either?”

 

The man nodded and broke eye contact, taking a few large gulps from the cannister.

 

“Indeed, there is not.”

 

An unsettled silence encompassed your small trio as he twisted the cannister’s cap between his fingers. The man remained silent as his eyes darkened and another wheezing gasp past his lips. It was odd for such sarcasm to come from someone in such deep pain.

 

“Well – I am not particularly well versed in healing besides physical wounds, but there is a chance you may be suffering from a concussion that has caused a temporary lapse of memory.” The man nodded his head in your direction. “And with this temporary lapse of memory, you may have it back relevantly soon – or one could hope?”

 

Bjarke made a grunt – pride injured from the stranger’s earlier harsh remark. His obvious distaste did not go unnoticed by the stranger either and they met your eyes with a quiet reserve.

 

“You needn’t have assisted me if it caused your travelling party such inconvenience in your travels. Although I am unaware as to how I have come to arrive in your grasp and thankful for your assistance in healing my body, I imagine I would have had everything sorted with or without your companionship.”

 

You raised an eyebrow at his claim and refused to offer an argument. Bjarke however, did not offer such resilience.

 

“How dare you! If it were not for Jorunn you would have - !”

 

“Bjarke enough.” You glared at your companion and he silenced, face red with irritation.

 

“No-name, you are injured and likely suffering from a concussion. You do not need this added stress despite your _stale attitude_ ” – the man had the audacity to smirk, albeit lightly – “so, would you prefer to choose a name for the remainder of our journey, or would you prefer to retain the title ‘no-name’?”

 

The man quirked his eyebrow.

 

“ _Our_ journey?”

 

You smiled warmly, ignoring his question.

 

“Why not Calder? It suits him. He is just as cold and harsh in behaviour as the rivers of Jotunheim.”

 

You glared at Bjarke’s input and threw another scrunched-up cloth in his direction, which ensured a tight-lipped smile. You were merely relieved that he was not suggesting to leave the injured man alone to make his own way to town.

 

“Ignore him. His pride is wounded at your dislike for folklore and myths.” Bjarke huffed, which you ignored. “Would a name like Egil suit you well?”

 

The man’s features remained neutral as he stared at you, face twisted into a form of discomfort as he tried to recognise its meaning and opened his mouth in reprieve. You were then unsure why his words proceeded to come out overly cautious and unbiased in response.

 

“I do not wish to overstep once more. It is clear that I have yet to receive a pleasant audience due to my behaviour,” his eyes wavered between Bjarke and yourself, “So once we have finished, I will retire and leave you both in peace.”

 

You studied him a moment longer and moved, leaning in further to study the man’s expression. When he leaned back at your breach of his personal space and stifled a cough, you smirked and settled back into a natural sitting position. 

 

The man was not a stoic as he appeared.

 

“Hush. You assume that because Bjarke does not regard you in a positive light that his opinion substitutes for my own. Truly, you have not proven to be awfully pleasant company, but you are injured and malnourished,” you eyed the bandages wrapped around his ribs, “And granted, most other travellers would be more grateful for our assistance, but I will ignore your slant regarding our actions as a delirious act of defensiveness from the pain. Now, what name would you prefer to be called whilst we travel?”

 

The man seemed to blanch at your words, blinking a few times. A wave of uncertainty hit him and was quickly hidden behind his proud façade.

 

“I do not know. It feels strange to pick a name for myself, as I surely have a name that suits me well.”

 

His mannerisms were truly puzzling, as his hands came together once more and fell to his sides.

 

“Well, you can view it as a nickname. A term of endearment in the form of a new title. I quite like the name Balder.”

 

He frowned.

 

“I think not.”

 

“Then Einar, as… We found you alone.”

 

The man’s eyebrows furrowed and watched you a moment longer, eyes studying you in a manner that you could not recognise. 

 

Would he call you out for your bluff?

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“Eerikki?”

 

He paused and seemed to think the name through.

 

“I do like the sound of Eerikki. It feels right. Natural. Yet, it does not sit well on the tongue for it is unwieldy.”

 

Bjarke groaned from behind and made a show of standing up, taking Raoul by the reins (who had been hovering around a nearby patch of grass) and moved over to the large tree where Stigr was grazing.

 

“Fine, then Vali. Courageous and strong.”

 

“No.”

 

“Dagwood – for your predisposition to adorn greens and blacks.”

 

He frowned once more and fingered the black trousers he wore. There was a flicker of recognition and then it vanished, a smirk settling upon his features.

 

“How unflattering. Your choices are becoming plain.”

 

You groaned and the man’s smirk widened.

 

“Surely you have a remote idea on what names feel right then. My suggestions are all unbecoming in your eyes.”

 

A chuckle eased from the man’s chest, which then lapsed into a series of coughs and you moved closer, rubbing a hand over his back to ease the coughing fit - hoping to prevent any further retching that had occurred previously.

 

“Are you insulted –,” he heaved once more, “by my decision to ignore your name suggestions?”

 

“Of course not. I am mildly irritated at your unhelpfulness in the face of such a problem as your name.”

 

A flicker of annoyance seemed to spark in his eyes.

 

“Your sarcasm is not welcomed in this instance, _little one_.”

 

The snide nature behind his words instigated a flare of indignation which flooded your veins and features, patting the man’s back perhaps a little more harshly than previously.

 

“Choose your words wisely, _No-name_.”

 

Your irritable tone seemed to urge the man on as he collected himself and grinned wickedly.

 

“Indeed, why shan’t I call you little? For you are small compared to your companion and myself.” His eyes seemed to trail from your body and back to where Bjarke stood with the two horses. “And the fact that you can ride a beast such as your horse – or what I believe is your horse – is outstanding.”

 

You scowled.

 

“Raoul is not a beast. He is very gentle and yes, his stature is quite large but it is nothing a hand or log can help with, No-name.”

 

He smirked once more.

 

“Did I touch a nerve, _lítill einn?_ ”

 

The change in dialect did little to calm your anger, especially since the phrase was similar enough to the original that its meaning was not lost on you.

 

“By a unanimous vote dictated by my person, your name shall remain no-name for your slander.”

 

The man barked out a rough laugh that lapsed into a series of coughs once more. His eyes seemed to spark with mischief and amusement at your quick response, which spurred his own prideful nature. His coughs did little to calm his own delight and witty remarks as he called you lítill einn once more.

 

You wished he would feel ill again and shut his mouth.

 

The bickering continued until Bjarke came over with two bowls full of leftover stew that he had warmed and a scowl still etched upon his round face.

 

“If it were not for your injured state,” he nodded towards No-name, “and your silver tongue in the most unfortunate instances,” he sent a stern glare in your direction, “know that I would sew both your mouths shut. I have never known such loud persons in my many days of life.”

 

There was a bitter edge to his statement.

 

Ignoring Bjarke’s tone, you laughed at the comment - having been used to such remarks from your time together, and lifted both bowls from his palms. 

 

“Indeed, it was my silver tongue which saved your life in Utangard, Bjarke. Was it not?”

 

Bjarke rolled his eyes and waved a hand in dismissal before turning around and walking back to the fire to grab his own bowl. You let out a slight huff of laughter at his actions and turned back to No-name who sat silently, mouth closed and tense - his left hand raised to graze the scars that traced his lips. 

 

“No-name?”

 

His eyes were wide and fragile, like a skittish horse. His attention was completely lost – eyes unseeing but present as fear gripped his sides. The fingers slipped between his lips were hidden underneath his gums and tongue. It looked like he was trying to dig something out that was trapped in his cheeks – tugging at the skin and scraping at his canines.

 

Your eyebrows furrowed and with a light touch, you traced his arm and No-name broke from his trance, visibly shaken. Bjarke returned as No-name flinched away from your touch and tore his hand out from underneath his lips. He seemed to gasp sharply and his eyes flittered from his fingers and back up to your face. He visibly shied away when you opened your mouth but thinking better of it, you offered the bowl instead.

 

“Stew?” The uncertainty wavered in your tone, almost verging on scepticism as you handed over the bowl into No-name’s trembling hands. He nodded in thanks, muttering something quietly, and with a slight reminder to eat slowly No-name took a scoop of stew and winced when it touched his lips. 

 

You caught Bjarke’s eye and he gave you a look of warning once more before settling down to join No-name and yourself in the enjoyment of good food.

 

The silence seemed tense for a few mouthfuls whilst you remained cautious after No-name’s reaction, unsure of how to proceed in a normal conversation after such a dramatic response to Bjarke’s jest. It continued for a moment longer until Bjarke sighed and swallowed down the last of his bowl with three large gulps.

 

Wiping the residue from his beard, he turned to you with a grin.

 

“Do not forget that you still owe me a bowl of rabbit stew, fauntkin.”

 

The tense silence was shattered by Bjarke’s words and you nudged him lightly in turn, laughing at his teasing manner and allowing yourself the comfort of leaning into his side.

 

“How could I ever forget with your big mouth?”

 

He chuckled in turn and pressed a fatherly kiss upon your hairline.

 

The conversation seemed to end there besides the refilling of No-name’s bowl, who had returned to his previous arrogant and lacklustre façade, and another canister of water being thrust in his direction. He seemed visibly less shaken at this point, but you refrained from over-stimulating his senses and memories by asking what had caused his disturbance.

 

When everyone had their fill, it was with your encouragement that No-name laid down and took a nap to allow further healing despite his moaning and protests. With a promise that you would get him to a proper healer’s shortly, you sent him to bed after moving him into a more shaded area of the clearing once you had noticed the red tint that his skin had gathered, and moved to clear the bowls once more.

 

Sitting down near the fire pit that Bjarke had built, you rinsed the bowls with one of the larger canisters of water as Raoul and Stigr grazed near the perimeter of the clearing. Bjarke seemed busy with sharpening his dagger and a comfortable silence settled between you, allowing the occurrence of events to repeat in your mind.

 

The marks around your new companion’s mouth seemed fairly similar to that of a needle, you noted.

 

“I don’t trust him.” The coarseness of Bjarke’s tone bristled against your thoughts. “You noticed his reaction to my jest – it was not natural. This whole situation is not right.”

 

You twirled the water around the two of the bowl.

 

“I am not sure what you wish for me to say, Bjarke. The man is injured and there are traces of a concussion and memory loss in relation to his physical and mental wounds.” You rinsed the third bowl. “We have no idea how his injuries and situation could have affected his mental state – especially when there is visible evidence of trauma on his body and in his mind, whether it is subconscious or not.”

 

Bjarke turned to watch the back of No-name once more, pausing in his movements.

 

“His reaction to your jest – that you would ‘sew our mouths shut’,” you murmured lowly and stacked the bowls together. “His reaction was not normal, yes, but the way he touched his lips – you have noticed the scars around them also, have you not?”

 

Bjarke grunted.

 

“I think there is a chance someone has done just that to him in the past. And remember the position we found him in – his difference in clothes and position? Not even he could tell us what had occurred before we found him.”

 

You rose from the ground and juggled the bowls into a stack with spoons atop of the pile.

 

“We must give him the benefit of the doubt until we reach town in the next few days – after that, we can pawn him off to a skilled healer and perhaps find someone who recognises him. Until then, we must keep No-name alive and try to give him time to heal.”

 

Bjarke groaned playfully and flicked a piece of flint in your direction.

 

“I understand where you are coming from, fauntkin, but know that I hold no promises that I won’t push him into the next river we see.”

 

You laughed.

 

“We will see, dear bear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fauntkin** – translation for young child/one, pronounced: _fawnt-kin_  
>  **Bjarke** – translation for bear, pronounced: _Byarh-ke_  
>  **Lítill einn** \- translation for little one, pronounced: _little ein_
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Ohmygod this is so long. Please don't expect every chapter to be this long!! I can't write 5,000 words for each chapter lmao
> 
> 2\. Some small hints towards our regular old sarcastic ass Loki!! finally!!
> 
> 3\. Keep an eye for references to Norse mythology as I'm throwing loads in constantly. Like, every other paragraph in all honesty.
> 
> 4\. I love comments!! Send me comments!! I will reply to every single one of them!!!
> 
> 5\. Find me on Tumblr: http://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> 6\. Buy me a kofi? - https://www.ko-fi.com/A045L7I


	3. Sárr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It appears that spite and mischief showcases No-name's true personality.

_I got a venom like a snake running out of my mouth_  
_(Running out of my mouth, running out of my mouth)_  
_It's got you burning at the stake_  
_Innocent or not, you're not a bet I care to take_  
_And Father Ignorance will make brothers of us all_  
_(Brothers of us all, brothers of us all)_  
_As he sets our torch aflame_  
_Chasing down the flimsy specters that we co-create_  


_\- Torches, The Oh Hellos_

_CHAPTER THREE_

“For the Valhalla’s sake! Allow me to assist you, No-name,” you growled as the man in question shuffled away from your hands once more. He scowled and swiped at your palm like a child, clearly displeased by your means of cleaning the wounds upon his chest. 

The man had the actual audacity to hiss at you.

 

Bjarke laughed at the exchange a few metres away, diminishing the fire that he had cooked lunch on, and watching your futile attempts with amusement.

 

“I am perfectly capable of cleaning my own lesions by myself,” No-name bit out and kicked away once more, keeping a decent distance between yourself and him. However, the jerked movement caused him to bite his lip and let out a small keen, the man’s broken arm jolted from its resting position.

 

“You are as senseless as you are prideful,” you scowled and crawled forward once more, gripping the whining man’s ankle and tugging him towards the healing salve. He kicked again and you pinched the heel of his foot. 

 

“Stop it, or else I shall leave you for infection and the Valkyrie’s arms.”

 

No-name paused and kicked out once more before stopping with a quiet mutter, scowling deeply and pushing himself towards yourself with as much pride that was left from his kicking and grumbling child façade. He still appeared sullen when you began to unwind the stained bandages from his torso, and gently pulled his arm out from within its sling. The wounds upon his chest had begun to heal up quite nicely in the short period No-name had been in your care, and the large scars appeared uninfected, as did your stitches. None had come undone overnight either.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you traced some of the lighter scars on his torso and noted how they hadn’t been there the night before, or at least, you had not seen them.

 

No-name flinched when you skimmed a scar that was aligned with the joint of his right arm.

 

“I have no idea why you would create such a fuss over such an easy procedure like this,” you commented as the bandages came off quickly and you applied alcohol to No-name’s deeper wounds. He winced and flinched at the stinging sensation.

 

“I assure you, I am perfectly capable of switching cloth for less blood-stained materials.”

 

You met his eyes, noses level at your sitting position, and raised an eyebrow. It was so tempting to just flick his elbow and let him howl, but despite its appeal, perhaps now was not the best time to quieten your dark companion by force.

 

“Indeed,” you raised an eyebrow and smirked, “I am quite sure that the bandaging and cleansing of your wounds would have been very easy for such a man as yourself, No-name. Especially with one arm in an unusable state and your back also containing a large scale of your injuries.”

 

No-name remained silent and glared at you.

 

“As I thought.”

 

The rest of his bandages were quickly swapped and any open wounds stitched or cleaned, with an extra layer of fabric and gauze to prevent further infection. The small keens and gasps that No-name released were quietly ignored, both for his pride and your own concentration, and his arm was checked once more. It was hard to remain neutral at the sight of its condition, even when you had aligned and splinted it back into the correct position. 

 

Running a finger over the veins upon his wrists, No-name flinched and pulled away from your touch.

 

You frowned.

 

No-name did not meet your eyes.

 

You opened your mouth, a question on the tip of your tongue when Bjarke yelled from across the clearing and waved a cloth over the dying fire.

 

“Fauntkin, we best be leaving if we are to arrive at our next campsite by nightfall. Gift the man some clothes and let us begin our ride!”

 

Unperturbed by your old companion’s interruption, you rose and offered a palm to No-name. He took it and allowed you to pull him to his feet, using your arm as slight leverage when standing as he grew used to the weight distribution on two legs. Eventually, he loosened his grip and balanced himself well enough to follow you towards the stack of satchels and sacks around the firepit.

 

“You prefer the more neutral and darker colours, right?” 

 

No-name remained silent and watched as you sifted through the clothes that had been packed in one of your smaller bags. You pulled out a loose blue top, strings drawn across the chest in a crossed pattern, and a pair of torn brown trousers.

 

“You do not truly expect me to wear _that_.”

 

Raising from the ground, you folded both pieces of cloth over your arm and smiled, resisting the overpowering temptation to roll your eyes at such a pompous soul that you had saved.

 

“Unless you wish to ride a horse naked, I find it the best option that you adorn what I give you. And the trousers that you are wearing as of currently, are not exactly the best option for I am sure the crusted blood and loose waist will not assist you by any means necessary.”

 

No-name seemed to hesitate for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, and then smirked.

 

“But I am quite sure that you,” he swept closer and husked into your ear, “would much prefer to have me naked. Am I incorrect, little one?” The purr in his tone did not go unnoticed by you, and if you weren’t aggravated before, now you were.

 

“Indeed, I would much prefer you naked,” you hummed in return and traced a hand over the bandages on No-name’s chest. He seemed surprised at your reaction, faltering at his movements. “As it would cause you far more pain when my boots target your crotch,” you smiled and pet his cheek.

 

The man froze for a moment and a look of realisation passed. Much to your surprise, he grinned – head tilted to the floor as he chuckled and eyebrows rose in amusement.  
You were surprised further at the difference it made to his morbid features.

 

“It appears you have claws, dear healer.”

 

You couldn’t help but smile with him.

 

“Yes, and I will happily use them more if you do not take these clothes from my arm and get changed. Not all women are easily swayed by a chest and long hair.”

 

No-name grinned wider at that.

 

“I will take that into thought next time I try to sway you, lítill einn,” he chuckled once more and took the shirt from your grasp. Despite his words, your attention was quickly drawn away from No-name’s taunts as you assisted him into the shirt. The blue was only remotely darker than the clouded sky, but consisted of a thinner fabric and was more well-suited for a man rather than a woman. It also allowed more room for No-name’s broken arm, which you ensured was kept in place by the loose sleeve tied around No-name’s shoulder and his sling. 

 

Overall, it was not a poor choice from your disarray of comfortable travelling clothes, and the trousers you picked were only mildly larger than his hips. The spare belt in your personal pouch was all that was needed to keep the brown fabric up.

 

Thank god there was such a variety of notches in the leather.

 

Stepping back, your scanned No-name over and nodded, satisfied with the clothing of choice. Granted, the trousers were large waist-wise and short when it came to his legs, and the shirt made him look more sickly than he already was, but they did their assigned jobs of protection and warmth. 

 

Bjarke joined you in your scanning and nodded, gruffly thrusting a pair of boots in No-name’s spare hand.

 

“I patched up the boots you arrived in. A little worse-for-wear, but nothing that can’t be fixed at least until we reach the next town over.”

 

The two men stared at each other and No-name bowed his head in thanks.

 

“I appreciate your skills and honing them upon my boots, especially as I am unsure if it would be wise for me to go barefoot whilst on uneven ground. I am much obliged.”

 

Bjarke frowned and met your eyes with an uneasy wariness, which you waved off and folded both arms in expectation.

 

It was mildly entertaining to see the different behaviours that No-name conveyed between two souls such as yourself and Bjarke.

 

“You are quite welcome,” he smiled gently at No-name and reached into his pocket. “Jorunn also gave me these in safe-keeping and I believe you would appreciate their return,” he explained and gifted No-name the pair of leather gloves that you had found buried in your bag. The engraved golden message inside the cuffs still was no clearer than it had been the day before.

 

No-name nodded his head in thanks once more and Bjarke smiled in return, leaving to stack the final satchels onto Stigr and Raoul’s backs. However, you remained as No-name pulled on his boots, offering assistance when he wavered and lacing the string into a tight bow. When your eyes raised, no longer cast down with focus, you found No-name staring at his gloves with glazed eyes.

 

“The message,” you voiced and No-name caught your eyes as you rose, “Can you understand what it says?”

 

No-name swallowed thickly and stuffed the gloves into his pocket.

 

“I do.”

 

The waver in his voice was replaced by his brisk approach, the words spoken in a waspish phrase of ice and betrayal.

 

“Would you like to tell m - ?”

 

His eyes caught yours and caused your heart to stutter.

 

The clustered emeralds seemed to carry a slit in their centre, forming the eyes of a snake as No-name glared at you. There was no forgiveness or warmth in their speckled colour. Any amusement or mischief that he had carried earlier that day had vanished, and the unnatural presentation of his pupils created an uneasy contrast against No-name’s hollowed cheeks.

 

He looked like a viper ready for the kill.

 

The illusion remained for a second and then phased back to No-name’s regular green eyes.

 

He seemed to wince as the illusion faded, clutching his hand against the back of his head and cursing as a bolt of pain raced from his brain and down to his tailbone. You caught him as No-name’s eyes rolled back into his head, his knees buckling and a screech fell from his mouth as he pulled away and sunk to the floor. His screams were closely followed by spluttering and retching as black bile seeped from his mouth. Your own name fell from his lips as he wept and curled into a foetal position, more bile rushing from his pale lips.

 

“Uskit'r!” You fell onto your knees, pulling No-name on to all fours as he retched onto the forest floor with more force each passing second. It was difficult to prevent him from collapsing, the bile joined by his tears as No-name sobbed and wept for the pain that coursed through his system. You ensured his hair was kept swept up in his previous ponytail and kept his weight balanced between his thin limbs and your own strength.

You were mildly fascinated by the hissing sound this bile created when it hit the dry leaves on the forest floor.

The sudden wave of illness passed as quickly as it arrived, No-name sputtering out the least streams of bile as you managed to pull the man into your arms and wipe the residual bile from his mouth with a spare piece of padded cloth.

 

He continued to heave as you cradled him gently, shocks of pain causing his body to shudder and shake from within the comfort of your arms.

 

No-name’s breath slowly lightened and his eyes fell closed as the pain diminished.

 

“You are safe, it is all alright now.” 

 

He seemed to keen at your words and buried his face into your neck as another spout of nausea ripped through him, hands clutched tightly over his chest as his fingers rubbed over the knuckles on each hand. 

 

When the silence continued and no more bile arose from No-name’s mouth, you pulled the man away from the comfort of your embrace and waited a moment longer as No-name kept his eyes tightly closed. When they opened and remained steady, no longer hazy and shaken from pain, you offered him a hand whilst he rose onto shaky legs.

No-name stood there for a moment as he collected his breath.

 

“What was that?” 

 

He looked at you and grimaced, resting his head on your shoulder.

 

“Odin knows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fauntkin** – translation for young child/one, pronounced: _fawnt-kin_  
>  **Bjarke** – translation for bear, pronounced: _Byarh-ke_  
>  **Uskit'r** \- translation for shit, pronounced: _You-skit-ar_
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Can you tell how heavily the Oh Hellos are influencing these chapters? ;)
> 
> 2\. Keep an eye for references to Norse mythology as I'm throwing loads in constantly. Like, every other paragraph in all honesty.
> 
> 3\. I love comments!! Send me comments!! I will reply to every single one of them!!!
> 
> 4\. Find me on Tumblr: http://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> 5\. Buy me a kofi? - https://www.ko-fi.com/A045L7I


	4. Móðir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is revealed.  
> And our stranger gets a name.
> 
> -
> 
> Also guys, if you ever have a question or want a certain scene, hit me with a comment! They keep me inspired and writing. Especially if you like a certain line or want more sarcastic interaction. I had a really lovely comment yesterday and it made my day!! Wrote out an entire chapter solely because of it ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE:** Loki's new nickname shall not remain for the entirety of this book. He will be referred to it for at least a good 5 - 10+ chapters, undoubtedly, but he will eventually be dubbed Loki or something along those lines.

_There beneath the willow tree_  
_I learned a lot about the way of things_  
_I learned that everything (the wind, the leaves) has breath inside_  
_They were pointing ever east_  
_To see the ever-turning aeon cease_  
_Their wills were ever bent on waiting with all their might_  
_\- Eurus, the Oh Hellos_

_CHAPTER FOUR_

No-name remained silent after his vomiting spell, allowing you to rinse the bile from his hands and wipe his face down with a piece of cloth. Nor did he complain when you forced him to wash out the sour taste with a canister of water. Or when you forced him to chew a piece of white willow bark to calm his stomach. 

 

His grimace left little to the imagination about such a bitter tasting snack.

 

The illusion you perceived was left for another day, when further questioning wouldn’t result in No-name’s sudden nausea and spittle.

“Bjarke, have we collected everything that is needed?” 

 

No-name scowled as you forced another piece of bark into his hand.

 

The redheaded man appeared from under his horse, having just latched the last bag on to Stigr’s side, and patted the horse kindly on their rump. He smiled and scratched Stigr underneath his chin before walking towards yourself and your dark companion.

 

“Indeed, we have.” He wiped down his hands with a handkerchief and stuffed it back into his breast pocket. “I also have tied the bag of herbs and meat to Raoul’s saddle, which we will eat tonight – and remember what you promised me, dear fauntkin.”

 

Bjarke winked.

 

“Yes, I know. Rabbit stew. I remember quite clearly, greedy bear,” you jested and were gifted with a hearty laugh from Bjarke. His eyes still remained warily upon No-name, but at least his normal mannerisms were back and with a vengeance. 

 

“Great. I think it best we start our journey then,” Bjarke chuckled once more and strode over to Stigr. He hopped onto the horse with ease and waited for you to do so in turn.

 

You greeted Raoul with a kiss to his nose and rubbed the top of his ears.

 

No-name trailed behind and watched as the dark horse nudged your shoulder excitedly.

 

“No-name, come here and meet Raoul formally,” you offered a hand to your companion, “Bjarke and I thought it best that you and I share Raoul on our way to town. He is the larger of our two horses and I am far lighter than Bjarke.”

 

No-name snorted at your comment.

 

“Besides, I am sure that we will have to share him merely for a few hours. But it is best if he becomes used to you before you suddenly start to ride him.”

 

You grabbed Raoul’s bridle and pulled the horse towards No-name, ensuring that if Raoul had a fit then at least he would not kick your newly healing ward.

 

“Hello Raoul,” No-name greeted the horse softly and you watched in bewilderment as the man and horse stared at each other for a good few seconds. It was Raoul who bent his head down first, eyes never leaving the man at your side, and he nudged No-name on his good shoulder. The man, in turn, scratched the horse’s ear and laughed, running his hands over Raoul’s mane and neck.

 

Your bewilderment turned to surprise.

 

“No-name, are you sure that you are not a horse whisperer, for I have never seen Raoul open up to anyone so quickly as he has to you.”

 

Raoul’s ears flicked at his name and turned back to lavish you with his affection instead, which caused you to giggle as he rubbed his face almost aggressively into your torso.

 

“I would not know,” your companion interrupted, “but I feel that I understand horses. Their body language is quite easy to decipher and it is common knowledge that horses prefer the ease of a person over the unease. Correct?”

 

You nodded and released Raoul’s bridle. Said horse nuzzled you once more and did the same to No-name. 

 

“You are undoubtedly right, and I’m glad that you are able to understand him so well,” you smiled and walked towards Raoul side. “It makes it easier for me to get you from one destination to another,” you jested and clutched Raoul’s saddle. With a slight struggle, you pulled yourself up to lie across Raoul’s saddle and swung another leg over to straddle the leather seat.

 

Glancing back, you found No-name watching you with a large self-satisfied smirk. There lay the problem of your annoyance and joy, as you were glad that No-name was no longer struggling with his stomach troubles or his previous anger at the question of what words were stitched into his gloves, but, you were not exactly pleased that he had watched your struggle and merely stood there smirking.

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

The injured man laughed and walked to the other side of Raoul, patting their body as he made his way around and hooked his hand onto the saddle. The ease he portrayed in sitting on the saddle was far too annoying, especially when he was obviously injured. 

 

Your scowl was apparently too obvious as No-name laughed once more and slid forward so that his thighs were braced against your own, whereas his torso was kept a short distance away from your own as to prevent any unnecessary jolting of the healing bones.

 

“Oh hush, my dear healer. You act as if this isn’t a dream of yours,” No-name purred into your ear and settled a hand onto your hip. “A handsome man cradling you whilst riding such a magnificent beast – ”

 

“I will push you off. Undoubtedly. In fact, I will have Raoul buck you off. All of the above if you don’t behave.” 

 

The man laughed once more and let his arm slide to cradle your stomach, which he used as a means of balance as Raoul began to walk and follow Stigr. No-name used this to his advantage as he leaned forward and continued talking.

 

“Your remarks are far too entertaining, little one. At this point, I fear that my comments will be merely to get such reactions.” His laughter did little to stifle your annoyance at such a proud and flirtatious man, but his own mischievous laughter was difficult not to join in with.

 

“Keep talking then,” you baited, “and I will make sure that both of your arms are broken.”

 

No-name chuckled once more and fell silent as the trees continued to pass by your trio of travellers. The view of nature seemed to settle your companion as he relaxed and let his hand loosen upon your stomach, eyes low and reflecting the different hues of leaves that formed a tunnel along the rocky path.

 

You were surprised to find a series of butterflies scattered amongst the leaves and some of the flowers that layered the forest floor. Especially as butterflies weren’t particularly well known in this region of Vanaheim.

 

A small handful of orange and yellow butterflies passed by Raoul calmly and one landed on No-name’s hand, causing him to flinch, and it fluttered back to its friends.

 

Slowing down, Bjarke and yourself watched as more butterflies flocked around the yellow flowers that dotted themselves between the decaying leaves on the sheet of grass and roots. 

No-name peered over your shoulder and two yellow butterflies landed on his face and hair.

 

Bjarke laughed.

 

“It appears you have Frigga’s blessing, No-name.” The redheaded man grinned and let an orange butterfly land on his finger before it flew away once more. “Butterflies were created by the Allmother to allow everyone a little piece of happiness and to protect them from evil.”

 

No-name waved away the two butterflies from his being and you watched as both flew to land on a nearby bush.

 

A green butterfly gifted you a blessing as it landed on your leg, its wings spread wide and displaying the cat’s eye that had been painted on its wings at birth. It soon grew bored and left, leaving you and your companions to continue on your journey.

 

The rest of the voyage was mildly interesting with the new terrain and the waterfalls that could be discovered in the south-west regions of the forest, however by nightfall your back had grown tired and sore. You could feel No-name’s agitation and how certain bumps on the path caused him discomfort, as displayed through his cursing and uncomfortable shifting that knocked you forward ever-so-often. Therefore, you were glad when your trio arrived at the designated camp that Bjarke had marked on his map.

 

Raoul and Stigr allowed for you, No-name and Bjarke to disembark in the small alcove amongst the leaves and willow trees. The rushing water from a nearby river greeted your ears, along with the birds that had built themselves comfortable nests in the willow trees. It was beautiful and as you stood surrounded by the streams of sunlight and glowing bugs that resided in the south of Vanaheim, you questioned your beliefs on the legends of fae and nymphs of nature.

 

The shifting of hooves removed your attention from the willow leaves and churning water and allowed you to unload Raoul – ridding him of the heavy load that he carried on his back and flanks. The several mats on his side caused your knees to buckle slightly, having undone the belt keeping them in place and catching all four woven mats at once, and you tried to juggle all four whilst maintaining your own balance.

 

“As much as enjoy watching you falter by your own hand, this is almost embarrassing,” No-name tutted and grabbed the toppling mat from your hands. You kicked at his right heel, which he countered by side-stepping and lifting the mat onto his right shoulder with an exaggerated eye-roll.

 

“Unnecessary.” You grabbed the mat from his arm and pulled it back onto the three other mats juggled in your arms. 

 

“Stubborn.”

 

You raised an eyebrow and grinned.

 

“Determined.”

 

No-name copied your smile.

 

“Foolish.”

 

You picked up a large cloth and tossed it at his face, laughing when the man spluttered and growled at your audacity. The manner in how he tore the fabric from his face only made you laugh louder as his eyes narrowed and teeth bared like a cat.

 

No-name seemed to find the humour in such action when he hurled the fabric back in your face.

 

The action ensued retaliation as you and the mischievous man tossed the fabric back and forth like children until you gave up, accepting that No-name had more perseverance than yourself. Evidently, after his obvious win, No-name assisted you with a few of the lighter bags, all out of the chivalry of his heart, you were sure, but stopped when you shooed him off in fear of his wounds. From thenceforth, he found himself a comfortable seat under the larger of weeping willows and proceeded to contribute by using his voice in second-hand assistance.

 

Revenge may be best served cold, but it was best presented on the honeyed tongue of a spiteful barmaid.

 

After his third remark, you tossed a nearby rock at his boot and forced him to form a fire pit away from the low-hanging branches. He seemed to frown at you when you threw a second stone at his leg, which Bjarke glared at you for, and stood to gather the nearby materials around your campsite.

 

It was another few minutes when all the materials had been unloaded and Bjarke began setting up the sleeping arrangement for the night, which consisted of three mats lined with thick blankets and bundled cloths in the rough shape of pillows. 

 

He smiled when you patted his back in passing and found his hand to squeeze in a familiar gesture.

 

“All well, fauntkin?”

 

You nodded and smiled.

 

“All well, Bjarke.”

 

You continued on and joined No-name at the firepit with the sack of meat and the separate pouch of herbs. Settling on the ground next to the cursing man, you helped with scraping the wet bark off a few pieces of kindling and threw them into the base of the pit. No-name paused in his cursing and watched your technique, scanning the dagger in your hand with an odd fascination, which passed as quickly as it arrived. He continued with his chores silently.

 

You were quickly entranced by the procedure of cooking and pouring the meat into the frothing brew above the fire. No-name seemed fascinated by the process, which you found unusual as most men knew the basis of a simple stew, but took no further notice than asking for his assistance in the sprinkling of herbs and spices.

 

His eyebrows drew together and green eyes stared blankly at the leaves within the herbal pouch.

 

“Are you sure these are supposed to add nutrients to a meal?” He handed the pouch over. “Surely leaves can do little in giving us energy after a long ride, such as todays.”

 

“Well, they are not really used as a nutrimental factor of a stew,” you glanced at the confused man with a frown. “Herbs are used to give most foods more flavour, as are spices. I am not sure whether a handful of herbs would be extremely appetising by themselves, however,” you smiled with a wavering laugh.

 

No-name regarded you a moment longer and nodded.

 

“Did you really -?” - the man glanced up - “Did you really not know that herbs are used as flavour?”

 

He stared at you, eyes almost glazed over completely, but then a smirk coated his features and he took a pinch of the mixed herbs – flicking it into your face.

 

“Of course, I did. I am not a complete imbecile,” he gloated and flicked another pinch of herbs at your face. “However, I appreciate your means in educating me.”

 

You tore the pouch away from him and No-name laughed once more.

 

You finished the meal shortly after and ensured that No-name was nowhere near the herbs from thenceforth, which seemed to entertain the man enough that he made it his mission to sneak the pouch of herbs from your person for the next half hour. And then flick them into your face. Twice more. Separately.

 

Bjarke lumbered over when you began to serve up the stew into three wooden bowls.

 

“Rabbit stew, as promised,” you winked and gifted the larger man a hefty portion of the meal. He grinned when you produced a roll of bread from the last tavern you had visited.

 

“A delight as always.” He ruffled your hair and sat down near the fire – the flames flickering off his beard as a source of reflection and forming a fiery explosion across his beard and hair.

 

No-name stuffed his face as soon as the bowl reached his palms and tore into the bread like a savage, and you tried not to stare at his change from elegance and grace to a growling, starved animal. He was through his first bowl before you had even had the chance to sit down and finish your piece of bread. Much to your chagrin, you gifted him with two more bowls before Bjarke and yourself had finished your first serving. And Bjarke took one more when No-name took his last.

 

You shoved another canister of water in his direction once he finished, and looked away as he gulped the water down in an almost aggressive manner.

 

The stew and water had seemingly done the job in ridding the man of his energy, and No-name sat calmly whilst watching the fire as you and Bjarke cleaned the bowls. His eyes had grown drowsy but there still remained a glimmer of self-awareness and caution that came with travelling through thick forestry.

 

It was verging on uncomfortably silent when No-name interrupted.

 

“One more ride and we will be back in Sandnæs.”

 

You stopped cleaning.

 

“Yes, a few more hours on horseback and we will be in Sandnæs. How do you know this?” 

 

The man in question withdrew his gaze from the flames and stared at you, unseeing and vacant like the first time he awoke in your presence. The green was dull and came across as dusty, crusted over by time, but it was all removed like a layer of wax or bronzer had graced his pupils. His eyes fluttered and No-name cringed for a moment, hand held to his head as a flicker of pain traced his cheeks but then faded.

 

“I –,“ he liked his lips. “I recognise the journey we are taking. It is to Sandnæs. The town known for its metal works in Vanaheim, right?”

 

Bjarke collected the bowls and sat across from No-name.

 

“You have no recollection of your life.”

 

No-name nodded cautiously.

 

“But you remember this route?”

 

No-name’s resolve hardened and his posture stiffened at the beginning of Bjarke’s accusation.

 

“I’ll have you know – “

 

“This shows that your lapse in memory is only temporary, I am sure. Or at least, I am as sure as a travelling goldsmith could be.” Bjarke grinned and you nudged his arm, noticing the snide pride layered upon his lips. 

 

“I am quite sure you will remember your past soon, no worries.”

 

No-name’s posture relaxed mildly and nodded stiffly.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Bjarke rose and patted the man’s shoulder in a sense of comradery, despite how No-name stiffened at the larger man’s hand on his person.

 

“Well, I am off to bed. Please keep the noise down, dear fauntkin,” he teased and pressed a kiss to your crown, “You are very loud when excited and I can not sleep a wink with you tittering in the background.” He ruffled your hair despite your complaints and smiled once more at No-name.

 

“And I wish you a good night also, No-name. Sleep well.”

 

“As you.”

 

Bjarke left with another wave and left you and No-name by the campfire as it slowly began to die. No-name had apparently become very comfortable where he sat, arm bandaged tightly to his chest and now fully-clothed and well-fed. Bjarke’s snores soon accompanied the sound of small insects and curious nocturnal creatures as his eyes drooped, allowing a sense of calm to wash over your person as your eyes echoed his own.

 

“My gloves.”

 

Your eyes opened once more.

 

“What about them?”

 

No-name rubbed his thumb over the ridges of his fingers.

 

“You asked about the message inside of them.”

 

Your sense of curiosity had awakened, but your mind still slumbered on.

 

With a hum, you shifted.

 

“Yes, but you did not like me asking.”

 

No-name shifted, mirroring your position like a cat, hoping to convey their trust towards another.

 

“Would you like to know?”

 

You frowned.

 

“But you did not tell me before.”

 

No-name seemed to stop and rethink his words as he rubbed his fingers together.

 

“Yes, but now I am tired and visibly more open for emotional discussion.” He smiled lightly. “I blame your stew.”

 

You laughed and nodded, yawning.

 

“Yes, please. I could not understand the language stitched into the cuff, but it was very fine thread and golden. So, it must mean someone of importance, or at least someone who regarded you with a level of importance, embroidered that message into your gloves as a means to convey their affection for you.”

 

No-name smiled softly; the sides forced down to form a weepy grin.

 

“Yes. It appears so.” He smiled at the floor. “The message is actually a message of departing. Left by my mother.”

 

“Oh,” your tongue felt heavy with sleep. “Does it have any hints to your life prior to our encounter?”

 

“No, sadly not.” No-name frowned and tucked his knees up, watching the fire a little longer. The silence grew as he watched the flames with eyes laden heavy with exhaustion and worry.

 

“Would you – Would you like to read the message to me?”

 

No-name lifted his head and hesitated, mouth open and forced into a defensive frown. The frown changed to a scowl then a line – borderline neutral.

 

“Yes. I would appreciate it.”

 

You nodded and watched as he withdrew the gloves from his pocket, flipping the cuff of his right-hand open. There was a glimmer of vulnerability as he began to read the message and even without his memories, you were sure that No-name felt deeply for his mother and her compassion.

 

“For my darling son,” his voice caught, “shall you be safe even in the most dire of consequences, and may your silver tongue never turn to lead when in danger. Whilst your soul may carry a catacomb of doubts and fears, know that my love and admiration forever remains in the light you bring, my dear neolate. I love you and wish for your return to be soon. Your dearest mother.”

 

The man lay his gloves back down and watched the fire a moment longer.

 

He spoke no more words.

 

“Neolate?” 

 

No-name looked at you with a frown.

 

“Like a baby snake. The word neolate means baby snake.” You smiled warmly. “Your mother sees you as her hatchling. Neolate.”

 

A small smile grew on No-name’s face.

 

“So she does.”

 

“It’s endearing.”

 

The man chuckled.

 

“I suppose so.”

 

Your brain flashed back to the image of No-name with viper-like eyes. Ready to pounce and kill. Staring at you with no feeling – like you were just another piece of meat for its next meal. Angry and full of prowess.

 

The image vanished and was replaced by No-name smiling once more.

 

“Well then, what about Ormr?”

 

“Ormr?” The man looked at you, confusion etched in his brow.

 

“Yes. Ormr for snake,” you explained. “A name away from home. A nod to your life before your passing amnesia, which I am sure will clear up soon.”

 

The smile upon No-name’s face seemed to freeze and his eyes grew icy. 

 

It passed once more.

 

“I – ” he coughed into his hand and nodded. “Yes, I quite like Ormr. I would much prefer it over the title ‘No-name’, rest assured.”

 

The easy-going smirk plastered on the man’s features did little to remove the passing glance of inner turmoil inside his being.

 

“Alright then, Ormr,” you rose and held out a hand. “I believe we should rest before we travel into town tomorrow. Best to look somewhat presentable amongst other folk rather than just the horses.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. I believe the horses are the best company I could ask for.”

 

You grinned and pulled Ormr from the floor.

 

“They will be your only company if you don’t go to sleep and allow our trio to arrive back in civilisation tomorrow.”

 

Ormr’s laugh echoed through the willow trees and you heard a mutter of complaint come from Bjarke’s direction.

 

“Shush, you oaf.”

 

He only laughed harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ormr** \- translation for snake, pronounced: _Or-mour_
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. GUYS. GUYS. I MET TOM HIDDLESTON. OH MY GOD. He was super sweet and nice. Really tired too (because this was after a play), but he was really polite and considerate. I also got a photo with him. It's now my lockscreen haha. But he was also super tall and really lovely, and he talked to me. I LOOKED HIM IN THE EYES AND STUTTERED LIKE A COWARD. haha I was so shy and nervous meeting him. Literally was shaking so much I asked him to hold my phone so I wouldn't drop it. Wish I had asked for a high-five or something instead of running off afterwards and not being a wuss. Alas, a dream come true! So, early chapter :)
> 
> 2\. Endgame tomorrow too! Oh god I am not ready. I have a full day of school before I can see it. Half of my friends are seeing the premiere tonight so I've threatened a good majority that if they spoil ANYTHING I will cry. Or hit them. It has yet to be decided.
> 
> 3\. Was looking up Old Norse endearments the other day and came across a website called 'how to romance a viking'. I am _living_ for the 21st Century thirst for vikings and Norse gods.
> 
> 4\. Keep an eye for references to Norse mythology as I'm throwing loads in constantly. Like, every other paragraph in all honesty.
> 
> 5\. I love comments!! Send me comments!! I will reply to every single one of them!!!
> 
> 6\. Find me on Tumblr: http://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> 7\. Buy me a kofi? - https://www.ko-fi.com/A045L7I


	5. Meizi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up with comments! I love reading and replying to them :)
> 
> I also have made a playlist for this work on Spotify. Find it under Seidrmadr :)
> 
> Find me on my current tumblr: https://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> **Think I should have a tumblr dedicated to purely Loki and this story? Tell me!**  
>   

_It took forever and a day for the canyon's and coasts to erode away_  
_By the weight of the ocean's cyclical motion they swayed_  
_And though the eons may pass as slow as the sands of an hourglass_  
_Every grain that we've counted claims that even the mountains can change_  
_\- New River, The Oh Hellos_

_CHAPTER FIVE_

It was early morning when your small party left the campsite and started back on their journey.

 

 

Bjarke was well-awake by the time all materials had been packed and both horses saddled up. Very little could be said for yourself and Ormr in similar regard.

 

 

It was amusing to see the contrast between the burly man and the slight form of Ormr, whose eyes were droopy from lack of sleep and his lips curled into a scowl. You were in a slightly better state, having grown used to the early rising time from such an extensive past of travelling, but you were still yawning by the time Ormr and yourself had climbed upon Raoul’s back.

 

 

The road into town was long but easy when compared to the rocky trails you had travelled previously.

 

 

Ormr was chewing on another piece of bark as the trail converged onto the main road, his stomach still relatively sensitive from yesterday, and you helped yourself to a slice of meat that was packed in a bag on Raoul’s side. Bjarke seemed to have a similar thought, gripping a package filled with different meats from Asgard – sent by a dear friend of his that owned a poultry farm. There appeared to be a truce between him and Ormr, as Bjarke offered the frail man a few slices, who scoffed them down with little prompting.

 

 

_Note to self_ , you thought,  _get that man on a proper diet at the earliest means possible._

 

 

It was lucky that your early start had meant the quick arrival into town. The road which led into the centre was relatively empty at such an early time in the morning. There were very few people, but even with the little congestion it still took an extra hour for the three of you to reach the outskirts of Sandnæs because Bjarke had taken it upon himself to greet every traveller that you passed, having lit up especially when he saw an older man with a thick black beard that rivalled his own. The intricate braids and ornaments, such as beads and engraved bronze, were particularly attractive to the eye and you smiled when the man stopped and waved at your small party.

 

 

“Bjarke!”

 

 

“Fenrir!”

 

 

Bjarke jumped down from Stigr and the man in question did the same with his wagon, both men gripping each other in a passing bear hug before splitting and patting one anothers’ shoulders in a gesture that was only reserved for old friends.

 

 

“How lucky it is that we caught you before departing,” Bjarke laughed and Fenrir joined in, slapping your friend on the back once more. They smiled a unanimous smile, features almost perfectly alike despite the dark wrinkles that adorned Fenrir’s sunken features.

 

 

“So, it appears Bjarke knows this man,” Ormr murmured in your ear and settled a hand onto your hip, balancing himself as he shifted forward, still wary of his arm. “And if I am not incorrect, they are related?”

 

 

You hummed.

 

 

“Half-brothers, the two,” you explained as Bjarke and Fenrir chatted amicably. “Same father, different mothers. Fenrir’s mother passed away when he was just a babe, around one-hundred years or so, and it was perhaps another three-hundred years before his father remarried. Another twenty for Bjarke to be born. There’s four of them – three brothers and one sister.”

 

 

Ormr nodded in return, curiosity sated.

 

 

“Forewarning,” you kicked Raoul into a trot as Bjarke climbed back onto Stigr, “We may be greeted by an overly zealous family of redheads once we are stationed.”

 

 

Ormr made a noise of annoyance and you huffed a chuckle, unsurprised.

 

 

“Oh yes, I did seem to leave out the detail that this is Bjarke’s hometown, didn’t I?”

 

 

He pinched your side.

 

 

You smacked his hand in turn and focused on steering Raoul as Sandnæs began to peak over the horizon. The walk into town was swifter after Bjarke’s abrupt stop –

 

 

_“It was not abrupt! I was surprised to see my brother travelling at this time in the morning, and it would have been rude if I hadn’t stopped to say hello. You know that, Jorunn.”_

 

_Ormr made a noise that had you stifling a laugh._

 

 

But the sounds of merchants chatting, ladies laughing and children playing in the streets were a wonderful welcome committee when your party finally entered the comfortable town of Sandnæs. And the smell of newly baked bread, the sound of a vendor playing his fiddle on the side of the road and a mother chiding her child over a small fall, all made you nostalgic from previous visits to Bjarke’s home.

 

 

The cobblestoned roads were wide enough for your horses to slip past the oncoming carts, and any passing pedestrians were kind enough to pause in their promenade, allowing the horses to keep their pace without any means of stopping.

 

 

Ormr had also remained oddly silent once entering the comforting town environment, his hand having grown slack and legs sitting relaxed behind your thighs. It was unsurprising that when you glimpsed back the man was distracted by the passing shops - especially those with herbs, books and meat installed in the front windows.

 

 

“Found anything you recognise?”

 

 

His eyes squinted at a nearby bookstall.

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Unconcerned by the lack of memory, you smiled and patted his leg.

 

 

“No worries. We will get you to a healer soon and after that perhaps we could go browse the shops and get you some properly fitted clothes, as well as anything else you will need for the meantime.”

 

 

Ormr shifted his leg and his hand gripped your hip as Raoul turned a corner, following closely behind an eager Stigr, who was growing faster and into a quick trot down the empty side road.

 

 

“I haven’t any money, you realise.”

 

 

You waved a hand.

 

 

“Bjarke and I have been lucky recently, so for this time, it is on me. No charge or need for you to repay us. It is really just to ensure that you are warm and well before finding your way home. Also, so that you don’t look so odd-looking in those trousers. Grey is very much not your colour.”

 

 

The teasing lilt in your tone did not go unnoticed.

 

 

“Odd-looking, you say?” Ormr rasped into your ear, “Oh, little one. You are wandering a dangerous path. I would be wary of your future words.”

 

 

You laughed and nudged Raoul to keep up with Stigr.

 

 

“Shut it, oddball. I’m sure with the proper cloth you would look very dashing,” you exclaimed with an exaggerated eyeroll, “for a miscreant, that is.”

 

 

“A miscreant, you say? Dear healer, you barely know me.”

 

 

You smirked and nudged the man behind you.

 

 

“And what does that say about you, sir? The fact I can dub you such a title with a mere few days under our belts.”

 

 

Ormr laughed, his voice thick and lavish.

 

 

It was shocking what a few days of proper care and water had done for his vocal cords.

 

 

“It very much means I am not a sir.”

 

 

Your party stopped only moments later outside a familiar townhouse. Stigr made a sharp whiney when the door opened and outpoured a number of men and women, as well as a few small children who wrapped their small arms around Bjarke’s hands, arms and legs.

 

 

It was entertaining to watch the large man lift them all with ease and swing the larger boys from their position on his biceps.

 

 

Lifting yourself off Raoul, you gave Ormr a passing glance, assuring him you would be right back and welcomed a group of small children as they excitedly tackled you. Their chattering was eager and they pawed at you like puppies, all pleading for your attention and tales of your adventures.

 

 

The group of small children calmed once Bjarke collected them into his arms with an excited squeeze. And the well-wishes of his aunts, uncles and other relatives were returned with equal enthusiasm on your behalf, a few extra hugs given for some of your friends amongst the large family.

 

 

“Fauntkin, it appears I may have been captured,” the older man spoke with a huffed chuckle as another swarm of children hung from his neck and shoulders. A baby had somehow found themselves settled in the crook of his arm.

 

 

You smiled, “I suppose you are incapable of travelling with us to the healers then, dear bear?”

 

 

He gave you a sheepish look as another relative whisked round and kissed his cheek in greeting.

 

 

“Jorunn, you are not staying?”

 

 

You turned towards the familiar voice and smiled, welcoming the ever-lovely Valencia into your arms, whose motherly prowess never failed to make you comply with her demands.

 

 

“I am afraid not,” you sighed heavily, enjoying the smile that adorned your friend’s features. “Whilst I will not tear dear Bjarke from the arms of his children, I have plans of another kind that I must return too.”

 

 

The tall woman glanced between you and Ormr, who sat on Raoul, watching Bjarke stumble around with all the children still swinging from his arms. His eyes seemed to glaze over the reunion, not particularly fussed despite the shrieks of excitement coming from the infants.

 

 

“My dear, have you finally found yourself a kærasti,” Valencia teased and fluttered her eyelashes at you in a flirtatious manner. Her blonde hair did little to prevent her teasing, letting it fall in front of her face and allowing the woman to fake an ever-masculine flick of her bangs.

 

 

“Alas, my friend. I must disappoint you once more,” you laughed with a light smack aimed at her arm. “But Ormr is very much not my kærasti – he is merely a traveller that Bjarke and I found on our way back into your lovely arms.”

 

 

Valencia let out an exaggerated groan.

 

 

“Dúllan mín, when will you find a man for me to tease you with?”

 

 

You smiled and smacked her once more.

 

 

“I am not yet two-thousand, Val. I barely scrape one-thousand-and-five-hundred at best! Besides, men are not my priority in this line of work, and you know this.”

 

 

Your friend groaned again.

 

 

“Yes, I have come to realise this from our fiftieth conversation along these lines, but it will never stop me from hoping for you to arrive with a dashing man by your side! None of my girls are old enough for men, and you are my only hope in practising my scare tactics before they grow too interested.”

 

 

“Alas, it appears that you may have to wait a little longer then,” you smiled warmly and hugged her once more, bidding goodbye as another group of relatives seemed to round onto Bjarke and yourself.

 

 

“Don't you forget to return for dinner, dúllan mín! I have much to discuss with you further," Valencia yelled as you walked away, gifting you a glare and knowing full well that you would return if only to prevent her undying wrath. With a snort, you nodded a confirmation to the strong-headed woman and gave a few of the children a gentle pet on their heads. Winking at Bjarke, you clambered back onto Raoul and settled in front of Ormr, the man sliding his hand back onto your hip and waving silently at Bjarke, who did the same.

 

 

Valencia sent you a look as Ormr shifted into a more comfortable position for the ride.

 

 

Drawing away from the loud family atmosphere, you were surprised to find how Ormr’s drawl was a stark contrast to the hyperactive chatter and yelling of Bjarke’s family, drawing your eyes away from the taunting look of Valencia’s.

 

 

“That was… exhausting to watch.”

 

 

You laughed.

 

 

“Imagine actually interacting with the Danrsons and dottirs,” you sighed and steered Raoul back towards the outskirts of Sandnæs. “They are a very… eager family – very loud and happy to be alive, more so.”

 

 

Ormr paused.

 

 

“They were all children and relatives of  _one man_?”

 

 

You cackled at the horror ingrained in his words, as though terrified at the idea that one spawn could create such an endless line of child after child.

 

 

His tongue may have been barbed days before, but the man at your back was far more of an open book than he wished.

 

 

“Indeed,” you wheezed and gathered a breath, “they are all relatives of Bjarke and his father. A lot of those children were his nieces and nephews, and the few who knew me were Bjarke’s own children. He visits them as often as he can in this line of work.”

 

 

Ormr shifted behind you.

 

 

“And the woman you were talking to?”

 

 

“A dear friend. Valencia is her name and Bjarke’s wife.”

 

 

“That is terrifying.”

 

 

You laughed, “What, being married to Bjarke or the number of children?”

 

 

“Both.”

 

 

“Next time, I’ll be sure to introduce you then.”

 

 

He pinched you again.

 

 

“Pain.”

 

 

“Endearing.”

 

 

“An annoyance.”

 

 

“A delight.”

 

 

“That is completely debatable, dear healer, and you know it,” Ormr jested and nudged Raoul with his own feet, increasing the horse’s pace down the increasingly busy streets.

 

 

“I assure you. It is not a debatable factor but a fact. I am the most delightful person one could know,” you nodded and smiled as Ormr pinched your side once more.

 

 

Slowing Raoul back into a slow trot, you took to steering him between the carts and busy merchants, slowing near the busy streets of the town centre. The healers were a mere few feet away and you knew it was better for Raoul to be left in the temporary care of a stable boy than traipsed around town without much need.

 

 

It was with your prior memory of the surrounding areas that you lead Raoul into a nearby stable, which he was taken in and cared for by a few ingots. The horse seemed to glare at you as Ormr slid off his back and was directed into one of the stalls.

 

 

You winced and waved at the gloomy stallion before exiting back onto the busy street as it struck eight thirty.

 

 

Gifting Ormr your arm, you were unsurprised that the injured man passed up the opportunity of extra support despite his healing wounds. His hands did trail to grip your arm as the crowds grew busy in the central streets, however, when you were almost separated from the injured man.

 

 

His eyes never seemed to stray from the passing shops as you directed him through the busy streets and the on-growing crowds. It got to the point where Ormr’s eyes were enraptured by a bound leather book, the second one in that specific shop, that you linked arms with the spindly man and tugged him in the direction of the healers.

 

 

You tutted as Ormr’s attention was withdrawn from the interesting books and leather copies, trailing beside you with a slight gate to his step. He sent you an unimpressed look, which you returned with equal force, and the man rolled his eyes at you. You scowled as he looked you dead in the eye, a smirk on his lips, and dug his heels into the pavement, letting you tug at him futilely.

 

 

By Odin, this man.

 

 

“Move, you oaf.”

 

 

“I shan’t.”

 

 

His smirk widened and mischief gleamed in his eyes.

 

 

“You are an utter pain, you realise?”

 

 

“I’d rather call myself a delight.”

 

 

You groaned and the man in question chuckled, allowing for you to drag him across the road and into the healers' ward and shop. His eyes gleamed as the bell chimed with greeting at your entrance and immediately Ormr was scanning the walls and shelves for different herbs and potions that were stacked in jars and varied bottles.

 

 

“Do not break anything.”

 

 

He smirked at you.

 

 

“Not on purpose at least.”

 

 

An older woman walked out from behind a curtain attached to the wall.

 

 

“Hello, how may I be of service?”

 

 

You gave Ormr one last withering glare and moved over to the counter. Leaning forward, you smiled politely, “Hello. I’m hoping that my companion could possibly see a healer at the best time available - specifically today if possible?”

 

 

You glanced over at Ormr as he pulled a book out from the collection stuffed into an overly crammed bookshelf.

 

 

“My travelling companion and I came across this man a few days ago – he’s heavily wounded on the chest and his arm is broken. He also has no memory from prior the incident, and with this amnesia, he’s having spouts of nausea with black bile.”

 

 

The woman’s face remained neutral, a frown coating her features at the mention of bile, and nodded.

 

 

“Anything else?”

 

 

“His hair. The side which is short seems to have been pulled and ripped from his scalp,” you explained with a wince and the woman nodded once more. “He seems malnourished but otherwise, there is nothing else.”

 

 

The woman smiled and waved a hand at Ormr, who was drawn from the books he had gathered. The man walked over, his hand out for a handshake.

 

 

“Hello, sir. My name is Kari,” she took his hand and shook it politely. Her words faltered when Ormr bowed and placed a kiss upon the back of her hand.

 

 

“Hello Kari,” he smiled sweetly, “are you my healer?”

 

 

The older woman was ripped from her stupor and smiled brightly, obviously charmed by Ormr despite his injured appearance, and nodded. “Yes sir, I will be your healer today and if you and your companion would follow me, I can have you healed right now. That is if it fits you.”

 

 

“Very much so, and I cannot express my gratitude enough for your help,” Ormr expressed and smiled brightly at the smaller woman. “My arm has been causing me far too much pain these past few days and I really hope that it can be fixed soon,” he relayed to the woman, whose eyes softened at his gentle tone.

 

 

“Of course, sir. I will do my best – I don’t wish for you to suffer any longer than you have. Just give me a moment and then I’ll come collect you,” she assured him and rushed back behind the curtain.

 

 

You looked at Ormr, whose features had settled back into a look of neutralism and verged on bored disdain.

 

 

“Want to explain your sudden princely act, good sir?”

 

 

Ormr smirked and shifted his broken arm. The sling which held it up was growing loose from the early rising time and long journey that Bjarke had inflicted upon the man and yourself.

 

 

“Nothing too extreme. A mere useful tactic in getting things done quicker and more efficiently, wouldn’t you say?” He grinned at you, eyes sparkling with delight and something darker, more sinister.

 

 

Unsure how to respond, the healer returned once more and opened the curtain for Ormr and yourself to slip past. The blush on her cheeks did not go unnoticed as Ormr slid past, a courteous smile trained on his lips, and you almost laughed at how Kari flushed a darker shade of pink.

 

 

Once settled, she had you sit down on a wooden chair to the side of the small healing room and forced Ormr to sit on an elevated bed inside the ward. The man sat without protest and pulled the sling over his head, gritting his teeth as Kari gently lifted his arm and stroked over the ridges and scars that dotted his skin.

 

 

Her eyebrows furrowed.

 

 

The healer assisted with ridding Ormr of his shirt and had him sit up straight, her hands skimming over the bandages that you had reapplied earlier that day. There was little talk as she unravelled them and skimmed over the stitches and healing wounds, searching for any puckering or discharge that could reveal an infection. It was with ease that she washed off the paste and took an alcohol-soaked rag, rinsing the skin of any dirt that had gathered overnight, and removed any larger specks with tweezers to prevent their entrance int Ormr’s wounds.

 

 

“I can fix your arm,” she spoke and her voice filled the empty room with trepidation, “however I fear that the bones may have already begun to realign themselves in the wrong position.”

 

 

Ormr frowned and winced as Kari squeezed gently around his elbow.

 

 

“I am sure I can handle the pain.”

 

 

The older woman looked at him and shook her head, a small smile gracing her features.

 

 

“Of course you can, ást. My question is, will you allow me to use seiðr to fix it or would you prefer a more natural and herbal approach?” She questioned whilst pushing Ormr to lie upon his back, who tensed up and glanced at you. His eyes were still lidded, giving the impression of a relaxed façade, but his pupils were small and his expression fell into unease.

 

 

You joined his side.

 

 

“Seiðr would be more preferable,” you voiced and stood beside the injured man, “as it will allow for the bones to break and realign at once. Then Kari can charge healing magic into your skeletal system and have them fuse into their prior state.”

 

 

You winced.

 

 

“It will hurt though.”

 

 

Ormr met your eyes, his pupils scanning your own, and nodded.

 

 

“Yes, seiðr please.”

 

 

Kari smiled gently and gifted Ormr a piece of thick leather to bite upon. He grimaced and let the leather sit between his teeth as Kari untwined the cloth around his arm, tracing the veins that aligned his pale skin, which made Ormr twitch. Her hands, though wrinkled, were gentle and cool against his elbow and you watched as the common glow of seiðr flooded from her palms and into his skin.

 

 

The grunt Ormr let out made you flinch. The skin around his elbow had grown taut and you could visibly see the bones shifting between his muscles.

 

 

You sympathised with the man, his eyes scrunched shut and his back arching at the pain.

 

 

The seiðr that flowed from the healer pulled and pulsed through Ormr’s skin and you watched as the bones shifted. It began to slowly diminish over time and the glow vanished as Kari pulled away, leaving Ormr panting and sweat rolling down his face.

 

 

He sluggishly complied when you pulled the leather from between his teeth and helped Ormr rise from his lying position, watching as he balanced with both arms.

 

 

Ormr leant against your torso as the pain seeped the man of his energy.

 

 

“Here. Have him drink this.”

 

 

Kari handed you a cup filled with floral tea, the smell overpowering and almost repulsive, which you forced down Ormr’s throat as he was shifted by your hands and their movements. The thick gulps made you rub his back softly, and once the tea was finished, you gifted it back to Kari and gave Ormr a moment to breathe.

 

 

The man sighed and his eyes fluttered open.

 

 

“That was mildly unpleasant.”

 

 

You snorted.

 

 

“I imagine so.” You squeezed his ribs and shifted away from his weight. “Want to try flexing your arm?”

 

 

Ormr searched the room for a moment, his eyes still bleary and mildly confused, before lifting his previously injured arm and flexing the fingers. There was no sign of pain from the man as he twisted the limb around, shifting his muscles and tensing them once then twice.

 

 

“Much better. Thank you, Kari.”

 

 

The older woman smiled and wiped the sweat away from his upper brow with a wet cloth.

 

 

“My pleasure.” She patted his cheek sweetly. “However, I don’t believe we are done yet.”

 

 

Ormr grimaced but lowered his head in acceptance. Kari smiled and traced her hands over the man’s shoulders, lifting her palms when she felt Ormr tense up from her touch. Her hands raised to rest on his temple, lifting Ormr’s head, and their eyes met.

 

 

“You have amnesia, am I wrong?”

 

 

“You are right.”

 

 

Kari hummed and drummed her fingers lightly over Ormr’s forehead, “Do you give me permission to try and align your thoughts and memories?” She tucked the few strands of loose hair behind his ear and smiled reassuringly.

 

 

“I assure you that this will not hurt.”

 

 

Ormr raised an eyebrow.

 

 

“I would hope not, but please. Go ahead.” He closed his eyes and allowed the weight of his head to fall into her palms. The healer softened her touch at the sign of trust and gave you a reassuring nod at Ormr’s acceptance.

 

 

The seiðr gleamed from Kari’s hands once more and you studied Ormr’s features as it leaked into his skin, causing the pale details of his face to glean an iridescent yellow. The gleam seemed to seep deeper into his skin as time passed and you could see the nerves within his system alight with the glow of Kari’s seiðr. His nervous system appeared to pulse with energy and life as Kari pushed more seiðr into his conscious and began shifting between the memories.

 

 

You sat silently as Kari worked her seiðr through Ormr’s mind, watching both her and Ormr with odd fascination. Despite her earlier claims, you were unsure if Ormr could not feel the seiðr, his face scrunched up with pain and sweat beginning to role down his face.

 

 

Your eyes widened and a sense of panic filled the air as Ormr retched and black bile spilt from his lips. His skin paled as the yellow seiðr was replaced by black liquid and shimmers of green. Glass shards seemed to split through his skin and shattered ice tumbled from his lips. The blood that seeped from his lips fell upon his chest and narrowly missed his healing wounds.

 

 

Kari ripped her hands away as Ormr begin to visibly shake and more bile spilt from his lips, his eyes opening and tearing up with panic and pain. The bile began to grow thicker and ran from his nose as he shook, grabbing your arm as the sound of hissing filled the room and the bile fell onto Ormr’s bed sheets, tearing the fabric's seams apart.

 

 

Kari’s hands raised to her mouth in horror at the scene and she took a shaky step back.

 

 

“Black bile.”

 

 

The healer moved quickly, pulling Ormr forward so that the bile would seep onto the floor rather than onto his own body and the bed lining. Her hands ran over his face and seiðr flooded Ormr’s chest, causing it to light up as the magic passed through his veins and blood.

 

 

Kari withdrew swiftly and hurried to a shelf to her left, scanning the vials and bottles. Her words came out mumbled and frantic as she muttered,  _‘purple, purple, red leaves’_ repeatedly and pulled the first vial that matched her description from the tall shelf.

 

 

The vial was large and indeed, held a thick purple liquid that smelled pungent when she tore off the cap.

 

 

Kari forced your hands to grip Ormr’s face and to tilt his head back. She quickly copied your actions and braced Ormr’s neck with one hand, the other pouring the potion through Ormr’s nostril and allowing the liquid to travel through his nasal cavity and down his throat.

 

 

There was a moment where Kari watched as the bile continued to spill from Ormr’s lips and then it stopped. The remaining black ooze that lay on his chest seeped off his pale skin and hit the ground in small droplets, creating a hiss as they hit the wooden panelling.

 

 

You helped prop Ormr up as the remaining bile dripped down your companion’s chin and his body shuddered violently. The man gripped your hand fiercely, too shaken and riddled with pain to consider his actions.

 

 

“Hold him still. I need to put him under.”

 

 

You glanced between Ormr and Kari, unsure whether to follow her instructions or to simply gift the shaken man the comfort that he desired.

 

 

You followed Kari’s demands and allowed for her to grip Ormr’s head and the man promptly passed out.

 

 

The shaking stopped.

 

 

His breathing eased.

 

 

You lowered Ormr onto the bed and pulled him onto his side, ensuring that if he had any further fits at least he could not choke.

 

 

Kari grabbed a cloth soaked in water from a nearby bowl and wiped away any bile residue on Ormr’s body. The cloth hissed at the contact with the bile but seemed to work enough to remove any traces from Ormr’s chest and face.

 

 

You sat silently, gripping the man’s hand as Kari finished her work in silence.

 

 

“Poison.”

 

 

You glanced up from Ormr’s shrunken face.

 

 

“Strong poison. A lot of strong poison in this man’s system,” the healer muttered and settled the cloth and water onto the floor besides Ormr’s bed. “A lot of exotic strong poison – basically lethal if it weren’t for his seiðr,” she murmured to herself and laid a gentle hand upon Ormr’s wrist.

 

 

“Very lucky. Very, very lucky.”

 

 

“Seiðr?”

 

 

Kari looked up from studying Ormr and frowned at your interruption. Her eyes fluttered between Ormr and yourself, grimacing as she patted his arm pityingly.

 

 

“The man you found is not that of common heritage, ást,” her voice lay thick with worry, “nor have you arrived with him in the best state. It is lucky that you brought him to a healer's, otherwise, I am unsure whether he would have survived another fortnight without care.”

 

 

“Another fortnight?”

 

 

Kari hummed.

 

 

“The black bile he has been secreting – it is not a common ailment for those of non-seiðr lineage, but is not common for those within a seiðr lineage either, therefore, it is damaging and rare. Not a natural ailment, rest-assured, but often self-inflicted or a rare death-sentence for those with magic.”

 

 

“He is a seiðmaðr?” You asked and looked at the shaking man within your grasp. Even when he was trembling and looking worse for wear, you had to agree there was still something ethereal about him.

 

 

“Yes. Very powerful. Very, very powerful,” the healer murmured and studied Ormr’s features closely, dismissing your curiosity for her own. “Uncommon upon Vanaheimr, but common in other realms such as Midgard and Jötunheimr – there are distinct features which lead me to believe that he may not be in his natural form. A buzz of seiðr encasing his entire being.”

 

 

Ormr whimpered softly in his sleep and the hand in your grasp tightened upon your fingers.

 

 

“Also, something else, but I cannot tell. Something unnatural to those of common background, rest assured.”

 

 

“Is he dangerous?”

 

 

Kari stayed silent for a moment.

 

 

“I cannot say, ást. He is injured beyond my aid, poisoned by that of a völva’s curse or death-sentence. Whoever inflicted these injuries upon him did not want the man to live much longer than he already has, but I cannot tell what heritage he possesses beyond that of the seiðr he carries. Even then there is a mixture of techniques and practices that appear to range from Asgardian to Jötunn. It is difficult to decipher.”

 

 

“And what of his memories? What caused such a reaction to your seiðr?”

 

 

The healer lifted her hand from Ormr’s body and settled it upon her hip.

 

 

“Your companion, whether he realises it or not, has encased his mind in seiðr. Due to the mixed heritage or perhaps the skills this man possesses, I cannot understand nor align the type of seiðr with my own knowledge. However, I can assure you that his memories are not present as of currently, granted, but they are there. And they are protected by a shield of seiðr I cannot penetrate – nor would I believe anyone in this town could dismantle without great fear of worsening your companion’s state.”

 

 

“Whoever poisoned him, the man knew what was coming and has obliterated any chance of the poison reaching his mind and therefore, saving his life and memories. It appears that any overlap of his past or search for his memories causes the poison to spike, which his system knows to secrete naturally, and therefore causes the man to release it in the easiest manner – vomiting.”

 

 

“It is actually incredibly brilliant, but very difficult to study and fix. The poison can be drawn out through careful concentration but only by someone of equal or more power than this man possesses, for the wall he has built is harsh and unforgiving in its manner of protection and pain.”

 

 

“But it can be fixed?”

 

 

The healer bit her lip and nodded.

 

 

“Yes, it can be fixed. But not here – not now. I can give him remedies and potions that can push off the inevitable and the deterioration of this man’s system, but I cannot expel it. There have been very few cases of such ailments, but I have records of what can be used to lengthen his life, however, without the right strength and power, the destruction of his memories and death are inevitable.”

 

 

You gripped at the slack hand within your palm, feeling a heavy bout of sympathy for a man riddled with so much pain and trial. He could not remember his family or past without the poison destroying his body.

 

 

“And where could we find someone who could dispel the poison and seiðr?”

 

 

Kari glanced at your joined hands.

 

 

“Ást, this man is a stranger to you, is he not?” You nodded. “Then I am unsure whether I should recite such information to you, especially as I am unsure whether you would assist the man or merely prevent him.”

 

 

She had a point, you noted, but the sting of her words caused you to bristle.

 

 

“My companion and I are experienced travellers – a goldsmith and a merchant to sell his wares. We travel many realms and planes. If Ormr was to have a companion to deliver him to the appropriate healers, then I would bet that Bjarke and I are better than none.”

 

 

There was a heavy sense of distrust in the air as the healer allowed her eyes to bore into your own. The swirls of magic seemed to gift her with rich hazel pupils that glistened with shocks of gold and black.

 

 

She relented.

 

 

“There are healers north of here – well versed in blood magic and seiðr. They are your best bet for the poison. Whether they could expel the seiðr on your companion’s mind, I cannot confirm, however.”

 

 

You nodded and moved Ormr’s hand to lay upon his stomach.

 

 

“But if the poison is fully removed, then there would be no concern when it came to returning Ormr’s memories?”

 

 

“Indeed, his memories would be easy to harness without any worry for his physical health.”

 

 

You rose from the man’s side and tucked a stray strand of hair back into Ormr’s loose ponytail. His breathing had deepened and all signs of illness had passed, leaving the man in an eased sleep.

 

 

“Your companion should stay here for the remainder of the day and perhaps overnight. It would be best for his wounds to heal and so that I may make the solution that would counteract the poison for the meantime,” Kari voiced and joined your side, “I will move him into a more private room for time being.”

 

 

“You’re right,” you accepted the truth in the healer’s words. “It is a wise choice, but would you be against my presence also? My other companion is currently reuniting with his family and I don’t wish to ruin the reunion with such dismal news.”

 

 

“You may. It could be a while before he wakes up – so perhaps you should grab some food from town and hopefully, by the time you return, your companion will have awoken. And I imagine he will be very pleased by the presence of food after expelling so much waste.”

 

 

Shaking hands with Kari, you thanked her graciously and squeezed Ormr’s arm once more. The slumbering man remained still and you pulled away.

 

 

Leaving the healing ward, you slipped a few ingots into Kari’s hands and promised to return in no less than three hours. The healer smiled gently at you and walked you out into the front of the shop, where two younger healers appeared to have started the working day by restocking potions in the glass cabinet and shelves.

 

 

“Thank you once more, Kari. I am most grateful for your help.”

 

 

The older woman waved a hand in passing.

 

 

“It is my job, krútt. Now go fetch yourself some food and I’ll see you at lunch.”

 

 

You nodded your head in thanks and walked out, hoping that with any luck, Ormr would be well and safe when he awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ást** – translation for love, pronounced: _as-t_  
>  **Kærasti** \- translation for darling/loved one/boyfriend, pronounced: _ky-ras-tee_  
>  **Seiðmaðr** – translation for sorcerer, pronounced: _say-der-mah-der_  
>  **Krútt** \- translation for sweetiblueutie, pronounced: _kyer-root_  
>  **Dúllan mín** \- translation for sweetie, pronounced: _du-lan mean_
> 
> 1\. Early chapter!!! I got impatient this morning and decided to post this a few days early as I just finished beta-ing the next chapter. Fingers-crossed it lives up to everyone's expectations. Send me a comment if you enjoyed it or hope for any further actions to occur in future chapters :)
> 
> 2\. I had around 3 ways to finish this chapter but none seemed to fit the story very well, but I'm glad that after many trials and errors I finally got there! My god, it caused me so much strife, but I'm really happy with how it planned out.
> 
> 3\. I love Bjarke's family. Be ready to have them fawn over Loki soon ;)
> 
> 4\. Keep an eye for references to Norse mythology as I'm throwing loads in constantly. Like, every other paragraph in all honesty.
> 
> 5\. I love comments!! Send me comments!! I will reply to every single one of them!!!
> 
> 6\. Find me on Tumblr: http://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> 7\. Buy me a kofi? - https://www.ko-fi.com/A045L7I


	6. Einn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewatched Avengers Endgame today. 
> 
> This is now an alternative universe in the multi-verse - it's decided.
> 
> Also Loki deserved a better ending.

_Hear on the wind how the pendulum swings_  
_Feel how the winter succumbs to the spring_  
_Over the palisade morning will break_  
_Rise up to meet it, oh sleeper awake_

_\- Caesar, the Oh Hellos_

_CHAPTER SIX_

You handed the butcher a handful of ingots as he passed the sealed package of meat over the counter, tied together with a thin string, and into your waiting hands. The burly man stood behind the counter with a large smile, rewarding your thanks with murmured  _‘of course’_ , coated in the thick regional accent of western Innangard and nodding his thanks in turn. From the front of the counter, you watched him stash the coins inside a clay jar, allowing the few coins to fall into his growing collection, and waved as you slipped out of the front door.

 

 

“Have a good day.”

 

 

The door slammed shut as you stepped onto the busy streets of Sandnæs, leaving you alone on the butcher’s front step with a small package of food for the oncoming day.

 

 

A woman bustled besides you, smiling apologetically as she reached for her rushing child and pulled them back into her arms. The precocious toddler squirmed in her arms for a few seconds and then fell into their mother’s chest with a soft noise, followed by the mother cooing and forcing herself into a fast gait. The toddler peered over their mother’s shoulder and cooed at you briefly, disappearing behind one of the central town buildings a moment later.

 

 

Swayed by the sweetness of the child’s toothless smile, you juggled the crinkled parcel with one hand and slid the meat into your side satchel alongside a loaf of bread that you had purchased from a nearby bakery. The endearing front and sign, spelling out  _Sæti Bakery_  in cursive, had lured you in – as did the sweet scent of custard pastries and cake.

 

 

No wonder it was Bjarke’s favourite bakery in Vanaheimr.

 

 

It was endearing and mildly annoying at how vastly Bjarke praised the bakery every time he visited, groaning with every bite of their carrot and rhubarb cake. The crumbs would often fall into his beard and gather until he finished off all the pastries he desired, so you were thankful to have gone alone for once. Without the added groaning and drooling from Bjarke, that is.

 

 

Closing the satchel once more, you glanced into a nearby shop window and read the time plastered on the shop’s clock face.

 

 

_Half hour past twelve._

 

 

Two hours had passed since you had left Ormr in the care of Healer Kari’s hands. His deteriorating state and the news of concentrated seiðr poison in his bloodstream had left the man beaten and exhausted upon the bed on which he lay. Even after leaving him in the care of such an experience healer, as displayed through Kari’s quick actions and previous experience in the medical field, you still felt uncomfortable having left the aching man in the grasp of another – despite your prior comments on passing him off to the next living soul who could heal him.

 

 

However, whether it was his easy and quick words, or the manner in which he teased you, or the sudden act of trust in which Ormr had read out his mother’s last words to him. The man had grown on you like a thick moss.

 

 

Granted, not a sturdy piece of moss, for it was a new ungainly friendship, but there were traces of life and flourishment in the odd friendship that had blossomed between the two of you.

 

 

It had also taken you another half hour to allow the full consequence and meaning of Kari’s words to settle within your pounding head. The adrenaline of Ormr’s passing sickness and the sudden kaleidoscope of information about Ormr’s gift in seiðr – which you had reacted in a rather dismissive manner, you now realised – having thrown your thought process for a mental loop.

 

 

It was rather overwhelming, having discovered the man only a few days prior and healing him under the beating summer sun, only to create an odd unstable friendship with him. His mannerisms still puzzled you at times, leaving you unsure of what phrases would set him over the edge or what would be considered taunting rather than teasing in his eyes. However, you did note that friendships were often built in less extreme scenarios, but it did not mean that Ormr and yourself were incompatible as companions.

 

 

There were many companionships that had been formed in far fewer than seven days.

 

 

Burying the thought, you glanced down at the lunch you had bought yourself and Ormr, that is if he was awake when you returned and tried to remember the right turn in which the side streets would lead you towards the main road leading into Sandnæs’ centre. Thankfully, in the time you had been apart from Ormr you had reunited yourself with Sandnæs layout and the townspeople – a sight to behold, granted there were far fewer people here than in previous years. You had also been able to require lodgings for the next few nights, and you had been gifted the opportunity to visit the passing merchants’ market, where there were many different and unique items being sold for either very extravagant or suspiciously low prices.

 

 

A golden pendant had caught your eye briefly, although the outrageous cost had made you decide it was a lost cause – no matter how enchanting the colourful design was.

 

 

Walking back through the opening streets of Sandnæs, satchel in hand, you decided a slow stroll back to the healers was your best decision in that instance and chose to gaze through the windows of multiple shops and stalls. The sound of voices and rolling carts on the bustling streets was a welcomed backing track as your eyes wandered from necklace to vial to book and then back to the buffed suits of armours and engraved swords, as well as the fancy clothes depicted in high-esteemed tailors and their partnerships.

 

 

The larger shops continued for a while longer but eventually, the more family-orientated and smaller shops filled the streets. There were Vanir flooding out from each of the cobbled buildings and sharing their wares in small stalls in front of their homes, yelling out prices and bargains to the passerbys.

 

 

You paused in front of a small bookshop.

 

 

The display in the front window was petite in size with a varying range of thick volumes and journals for women and men of incredible penmanship. There was even a small collection of ink pots framed by thick quills and shiny tips. Besides, the beautiful quills stood even more books arranged into small piles – spanned over the wooden shelf to display the intricate leather-bound covers and titles.

 

 

Whilst it was true that you did not often indulge in literature, you held an odd admiration for the written thoughts of another. Especially those of a fictional world where young children and adults were capable of escaping reality, at least for a moment. But that did not mean philosophers and their beliefs did not deter your attention either, as there were many interesting theories and discussions often held within the binding of a good book.

 

 

 _Ormr seemed particularly interested in books_ , you noted in a passing thought,  _perhaps I should purchase a volume for him?_

 

A short-lived idea.

 

 

It was a silly notion, you realised, and turned to head back – acknowledging that Ormr could choose his own books when he was moving once more. That is if he wished too. Yet, a thin book with the title  _Seiðr and Potions_ caused you to pause. The cover was thinner than the other more expensive books, but the intricate golden detailing seemed to make up for its small size, and you found yourself estimating the cut in your wages. Through much mental debate with what crossed the line of a kind-hearted stranger and friend, or an overtly friendly fool, you entered the shop.

 

 

The exchange of money and paper was quick and painless, the book costing very little in comparison to some of the larger copies and finer covers, and you exited a few moments later with the volume in your arms and the hope that Ormr would enjoy it. Especially as you were uncertain if Ormr could actually remember how to use seiðr, no less use it without an infliction of seiðr poisoning. But perhaps he would simply appreciate the aesthetic of the green leather and black ribbon? Or, if his seiðr was currently indisposed, he would appreciate the connection to his past by the formation of potions and remedies _._

 

 

 _It is a gift of consolidation_ , you decided,  _an act of offered friendship and a further alliance, considering how Ormr may be staying with Bjarke and myself._

 

It was a satisfying decision. Especially as you were sure that Ormr would feel quite alone and confused once he awoke, and if you were there to calm him down with a few sarcastic remarks and something familiar for him to grasp, then perhaps it would allow Ormr a source of comfort. Moreso, you were unsure whether the man would find your presence a comfort in such trying times. You may still be a stranger or newly-earned friend in his eyes, and the memory of Ormr’s sudden anger at your curious questions did not lay unforgotten.

 

 

Checking the time once more, you found that the town clocks had struck half one. Distracted by the wares of an iron merchant, you hadn’t heard the town clocktower strike the hour.

 

 

Finding it a good time to start your walk back, you checked that nothing had been lost in your traipse around town. And despite the slight squashing of the bread, everything appeared intact, so you slid the book into a side pocket and twisted the strap around your shoulders. The food and book fit snuggly in the leather hide, unbothered by the battering they received through the busy streets of Sandnæs, so you continued the walk with no further interest regarding the side stalls situated along the cobblestoned roads.

 

 

When you arrived back at the healers, the swinging sign at its front had been washed during your absence and the door was flung wide open to allow some diminishment of the summer heat. Without its swinging motion, the entrance permitted you to walk into the small front of the ward without the shop bell chiming your arrival, and greeted the two young apprentices behind the counter.

 

 

Both girls were young in their age, cusping on the awkward verge of childhood and adulthood. Both held similar features, however their skin varied in tone and one of the two sisters were speckled with lack of pigment, whereas the other had hair that bunched around their ears and her sister wore braids that fell to her shoulders.

 

 

Both wore the embroidered symbol of the Sandnæs ward on their clothes.

 

 

“Hello, how may we assist you today?” The smaller asked, face stretched into a warm smile whilst her sister gathered a handful of plants and vials – sorting them into an open cabinet to the side of their station.

 

 

“Healer Kari asked me to come back for my companion,” you shifted the bag on your hip and nodded towards the curtain leading towards the back ward. “A man named Ormr who suffered from a poison-induced... _seizure_  – long black hair and green eyes. Quite lithe and tall.”

 

 

The twins glanced at one another.

 

 

“Are you Jorunn?”

 

 

By Odin, you cursed Bjarke for the  _endearing_ title.

 

 

“Yes. I was the woman who delivered Ormr this morning,” you nodded in regards to the girl’s question, “My travelling companion and I came across him a mere few days ago. The man has been in my care since he was discovered and our party had only been able to reach town early this morning.”

 

 

The taller of the two grimaced.

 

 

“He is awake. Please, follow me.”

 

 

Trailing after the girl, you passed the smaller of the two sisters, who smiled warmly once more, and through the red curtains – ducking between the folds of fabric. Inside the ward, rays of sunlight filtered the room where more men and women lay in the ward beds. Few were alone whilst others were covered by healers of varying ages and colours, all practised in the art of seiðr.

 

 

None were men. As was custom to the Vanaheimr realm.

 

 

Kari came fluttering up to you in a spike of anxiety, her hands gripping yours as she pulled you away from the young apprentice without a word. The young girl did little but wait for the older healer to pull you away, before turning and retreating into the storefront where her sister sat in waiting. Her hands were still as she retraced her steps and offered an unvoiced apology for the condition you would find your companion in.

 

 

“Thank the Norns, you are back!” Kari bit out, relief encasing her voice as she hurried you out of the public ward. “The man – Ormr – he did not react well to your departure.”

 

 

“My departure?”

 

 

“Yes, very badly. Incredibly badly. Never have I seen such a violent response to someone's absence.” Kari bit her lip and winced, “I did not anticipate such a panicked reaction to his awakening but it took more than three of my healers to stop his attack.”

 

 

You faltered in your steps.

 

 

“ _Attack?”_

 

 

Kari paused in front of a closed wooden door.

 

 

“Ást,” she turned and her eyes searched yours patiently, ignoring the frantic tone in your voice, “You must understand. Ormr - you do not know who he is or where he has come from. The man could be of any mother or father in the realms. We do not know him or his heritage, but trust me when I say he has been injured very badly. Physically and mentally. Whilst his physical injuries have been healed and I can temporarily cure his poisoned ailment, there are traces of injuries that as healers of the body, we cannot fix.”

 

 

The realisation that struck with her words caused shame to bottle in your chest, especially as Ormr’s previous actions had hinted towards evidence of physical and psychological abuse. 

 

 

“Ormr has been injured by faculties of the mind and conscience, and my wards and I cannot help a man with those kinds of injury. Please understand, Ormr meant nothing in his attack and my own healers know this. He was scared and in pain, not to mention forcefully sedated during his seizure. I am unsure of the extent concerning his mental condition, but he is not the worst we have seen and he is not the best either. We have no knowledge in the extent of his poor mental health, but it is not our right to push his boundaries.”

 

 

“And the attack?”

 

 

Kari grimaced.

 

 

“Another healer, one of the more experienced, thankfully,” she breathed out. “But when the man awoke, he was distraught – it was a mistake to move him whilst asleep, granted, as it was a mistake to have you leave whilst he was under. But the attack I speak of – he tried to physically harm one of our healers when they attempted to touch him.”

 

 

You ran a few fingers through your hair as a source of self-comfort and sucked in a shaky breath.

 

 

“Ormr did that to me the first time I tried to help him, too. But it was more as an attempt of escaping my grasp,” you lifted your head and met Kari’s eyes once more, “I am so sorry I did not warn you. I had no belief that his reactions would repeat in such a violent manner, especially as he has been so well in the past few days.”

 

 

The older woman squeezed your arm.

 

 

“Whilst the information may have prevented our panic, know that it is all well, krútt _._ You did not realise the nature of Ormr’s condition and therefore, it is not your fault. And our healer is fine – no harm done. It is not uncommon for our patients to awake in a panicked state, so rest assured that Ormr is not the first to react violently, and he shall not be the last either. However, I believe your presence would be appreciated, moreso because he was further panicked when the news of your departure reached his ears.”

 

 

You winced, the shame strengthening until it overwhelmed your prior guilt, despite Kari’s own blatant shame, which lay heavy on her features. It was difficult to banish the regret despite your reasoning, knowing that your presence would have been a pure nuisance within the healers’ ward. And you knew Kari’s influence in your walk was out of pure heart rather than anything malicious. Besides, your walk  _had_  allowed the procession of your thoughts and feelings to be organised rather than to wallow and manifest in your mind. Not to mention, it would have been purely selfish to feast upon the ward’s rations than to buy your own food in town.

 

 

Moving past Kari, you thanked her softly and opened the door, stepping into the small room where a single bed had been pushed up against the far wall. The bed was positioned facing the open doorway and beside it sat two side tables covered in herbal mixtures and flowers twisted towards the light coming through a framed window. The whole room was glazed in sunlight, displaying the white-washed walls and sterile placement of furniture through the rays of yellow slipping through the glass planes.

 

 

Lying in the ruffled sheets lay Ormr bundled in several blankets and adorned in a fresh layer of plasters. His gaze remained vacant on the wall to his right, pupils frozen and glossed over by the streams of sunlight. The side of his head that had been ripped and shredded appeared to be mended now, the hair cut and sheered to a suitable length whilst any blood and cuts had been stitch and cleansed.

 

 

You tapped on the door.

 

 

His gaze turned to you.

 

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

 

Tension eased from the man’s stiff stature and his body fell more languidly onto the stiff sheets stretched across his bed. His eyes still drilled onto your worried form, eyebrows furrowed and a sneer coating his lips. An air of animosity filled the sterile atmosphere, causing you to shift and brace yourself for further violence or distrust from the injured man.

 

 

“I am better.”

 

 

The curtness in his answer cut an inch too deep for comfort.

 

 

“I am glad. I feared for your health when your body reacted so violently to the healer’s seiðr,” you offered softly and walked into the room, slipping the satchel from your shoulder and grabbing a chair. “I apologise I was not here when you awoke – Kari sent me to fetch food and to prevent any disruption inside the main ward.”

 

 

Ormr hummed and his eyes slid off your form, back towards the open window where the noise of carts and people echoed from the busy streets. His eyes seemed to freeze over and his features fell flat, refusing to meet your eyes once more.

 

 

“Good. I was glad that you were not here. It allowed me some time away from yours and your companion’s boorish company.”

 

 

There was an angered bite to his tone, seething and rejected in nature, but the manner in which he spoke was cool and unfeeling. No emotions reached past his jaw and his features remained cruelly despondent.

 

 

You had experienced such behaviour before, and you would not fall flat in your attempts to break the frozen façade now.

 

 

“I am glad then, that you found time to relax and heal despite my absence,” you smiled sweetly, ignoring the manner in which Ormr’s eyes twitched. “I bought us food – meat cutlets, such as boar and pig – and bread from a nearby bakery.”

 

 

You dug the packages out from inside your bag and laid them on the table besides Ormr. The parcel crinkled loudly in the tense silence and you laid the meat out for the man to see and pick. The bread was, thankfully, pre-sliced and parts of the crust flaked from its paper coverage.

 

 

“I am no longer hungry, thank you. The healers have fed me in your absence.” Ormr turned his head away from the food, however his eyes wavered in their attention for a moment, foiling the man’s silver tongue and his waspish words.

 

 

“Well, if you find yourself able to stomach the food,” you sandwiched a piece of meat between two slices and bit into it, fully-acknowledging Ormr’s attention on your meal, “then I believe it is best to leave the bread and cutlets for your disposal.”

 

 

The man faltered in his stoic behaviour, hands inching across the stiff bedsheets and eyes growing a small degree warmer, all whilst he stared at the bread squashed between your fingers.

 

 

His voice softened.

 

 

“Thank you.”

 

 

You nodded and took another bite, brushing crumbs from the travelling trousers you adorned at that moment. True, it was a futile attempt in clearing the mess which would grow as you finished the sandwich, hunger temporarily quenched, but you found that the previously tense silence had grown slightly less overbearing as you sat and ate.

 

 

“Oh,” you broke the silence again and swallowed the last bite. “I bought you a gift in town – something you showed interest in earlier, when we were riding Raoul through the Sandnæs’ centre."

 

 

Ormr watched as your hands slipped into the bag once more, pulling the green leather-bound book from its pocket and smoothing out the black ribbon attached to its spine.

 

 

“Here. I am unsure whether Kari has informed you fully of your ailments, but I believe this book will be helpful or at least entertaining for you to read,” you explained and laid the volume on Ormr’s lap. He gazed at the book a moment longer and ran his fingers over the ridges of detail on its cover and spine.

 

 

Lifting the book from his sheets, you watched as Ormr thumbed his way between the volume’s pages and curled the ribbon over his left hand. A look of grief and ease flooded his features, polar-opposites consuming his mind as he pulled the book further into his chest and allowed the smell of ink and paper to flood his senses. His eyes teared up momentarily, chest clenched and left hand rubbing over the dips of his fingers and the silk bookmark.

 

 

“Seiðr and potions?” Ormr licked his lips and traced the cursive letters slowly. “Thank you – for your gift, that is.” He faltered and pulled himself further up the bed, book tucked into the crook of his arm, and sat to his full height.

 

 

“It is alright. I’m glad you like it, especially as I hope it may help for future references.”

 

 

He nodded.

 

 

“Yes, the healers explained to me what occurred,” Ormr’s façade crumbled as a small wince coated his features. “I apologise for causing such an  _event,”_ he paused at the word, “but it is quite nice to understand the extent of my injuries, I suppose.”

 

 

A lingering sense of bitterness weighed heavy on his tongue.

 

 

“So, you know of the seiðr and poison?”

 

 

“Yes, I know of the seiðr and poison,” he recited your words with a quirked eyebrow. His face held no remaining angst or anger as he traced over the book’s textured cover.

 

 

“And, are you alright?”

 

 

“What? Are you a mind healer, now?” Ormr spat out, shoulders tensing and fingers curling over the book’s surface. His defensiveness fell as swiftly as it built and Ormr’s body unfurled itself, a look of shame flooding his features, “I apologise, that was – uncalled for. I am not quite in the right mind as of currently.”

 

 

He picked at his thumb.

 

 

“As much as I don’t appreciate your curtness, know that there is no harm done,” you hummed and began to make a second sandwich. “However, the next time you yell at me, I will throw a rock at you.”

 

 

You watched Ormr, cautious of his reaction towards your light-hearted threat.

 

 

He chuckled weakly.

 

 

“I have no doubt, dear healer. Will you make me build a fire pit too?” He teased and rolled onto his side, facing you fully. The fabric bunched around his waist and you were happy to see the clean gauze and patches that had been applied to the worst of his cuts. No longer was he bound in bandages.

 

 

“Most definitely, but if you behave, perhaps I will allow you to simply set up our beds for the night,” you grinned and handed the prepared food over, “Now eat. Despite your gilded words, I know the behaviour of a starving man.”

 

 

Ormr hesitated and took the food, accepting his lies and your truth.

 

 

"Thank you, again."

 

 

His words held more meaning than was spoken, but you accepted the subject of which he voiced.

 

 

You sat a while longer as Ormr ate the meal, supplying him with another sandwich and another roll of bread that you had bought. He eventually ate the entirety of the bread and finished off the remaining meat, all which he consumed with the ravenous nature of a bilgesnipe.

 

 

“I feel like you and Valencia would get along just fine.”

 

 

Ormr paused in his chewing.

 

 

“Bjarke’s wife?”

 

 

“Yes,” you smiled brightly, “She could feed both the army of Hel  _and_  the Valkyries. No doubt if you were to meet, the poor woman would never let you leave her home without a few pies and roast under your belt. That is, if the children do not eat the pies before you do.”

 

 

Ormr chuckled and lapsed back into silence as he finished off the last pieces of meat. He passed over the last piece of bread - a truce and an apology. The bread and meat packaging were slipped inside your bag, and you took a bite of the slice he offered.

 

 

The following hour you remained by Ormr’s side in comfortable ease. The awkward tension had ceased and so the pair of you indulged yourselves with the book you had gifted him, Ormr reading out each passage for his interest and your own. When the town clock tour struck four, Ormr silenced and turned to face the northern window. His eyes watched the clock’s hands land on the number four, the bells sounding as you rose and wiped off any remaining crumbs that resided on your trousers.

 

 

“I fear that I must leave – Bjarke and Valencia will be expecting me soon for dinner,” you explained and slipped the satchel back onto your shoulder. “And I doubt Raoul is most grateful about his stay in the public Sandnæs stables.”

 

 

Ormr stayed silent as the chair was tucked away and your satchel shifted. His eyes seemed wary as you rose and stood by his bed. His hands wrung around each other subtly, acutely hidden by his sheets.

 

 

“Hopefully, by tomorrow you will be discharged and I can take you back to our current lodgings. Whilst Bjarke stays with his family, I have bartered two rooms in a nearby tavern. I will come to pick you up tomorrow around noon – that is, if you believe to feel up for it.”

 

 

Ormr’s hands fell and the wariness lessened.

 

 

“So, you will be returning?” There was a definite change to his voice.

 

 

“Of course,” your eyebrows furrowed, “You did not believe I would abandon you to the healers’ hand, do you?”

 

 

Ormr’s eyes shifted.

 

 

“You did.”

 

 

“When I awoke,” he spoke slowly, “one of the healers. She said that you had left the ward. Left me, I suppose, to fend for myself.” Ormr shifted his head upon the pillow. “I did not believe you would come back, nor that you would wish to keep me as a companion. I am not the easiest of men to be around, especially with the newly discovered circumstances. Such is the reason why I acted so, um, _coldly_ , towards you.”

 

 

“Ormr,” you sat on the bed and refrained from touching his arm, “I know that we are barely strangers. Barely friends. But know that I have no intentions of leaving you alone without your request. Bjarke and I want to offer you a place with our travelling party. We would be happy to have you join our journeys to other regions and realms.” You laughed at his frown. “Okay perhaps _I_ would be happy to have you join our small travel party, but I truly believe that we could be friends. Or at least, I would like us to be friends. And I would like to assist with earning your memories back, with or without the poison in your system.”

 

 

The injured man faltered and a slow smile settled on his cheeks, completely filling his features with unadulterated affection and gratitude. His eyes lit up and the fire that grew behind his pupils formed an elixir of gold and green topaz. Even his cracked lips grew into crescent blossoms that shifted with a lick of his tongue.

 

 

“I would like to be your friend too.”

 

 

You echoed his expression and lifted a hand.

 

 

“Friends?”

 

 

“Friends.”

 

 

His hand clasped yours and it was unsurprising to see the magnitude in which his palm swamped your own. The gloves which he kept had obviously been used religiously as his hands felt extravagantly soft in comparison to your own.

 

 

“Great,” you squeezed his hand once more and dropped it. "And no worries for your previous actions. It is in the past, however harke my words that I _will_ throw a rock at you if you repeat such actions again."

 

 

Ormr smiled, "I promise. And I assure you that I truly am sorry. I apologise for reacting so coldly to your arrival and any other slights I have caused in the past few days."

 

 

You nodded thoughtfully and squeezed his arm, glad that Ormr did not pull away from your touch.

 

 

“Thank you. I appreciate it, but I really do have to leave now – Valencia is not a person you wish to anger.”

 

 

Ormr chuckled.

 

 

“Have fun and do not do anything I wouldn’t.”

 

 

You laughed and a smirk spread over your lips, “In which you mean, do not refrain from causing chaos?”

 

 

His eyes sparked once more, watching as you stood to leave.

 

 

“Dear healer, chaos is such a harsh term. Perhaps _mischief_ would be better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ást** – translation for love, pronounced: _as-t_  
>  **Krútt** \- translation for sweetiblueutie, pronounced: _kyer-root_
> 
> 1\. Friends at last!! We stepped up, my guys. Ormr is starting to open up a little! Can’t wait until he meets Bjarke’s family ;)
> 
> 2\. Updates may (accidentally) be slower in the future as I have recently started a new fanfiction called: **Litklœði** , which also stars Loki. It focuses on the Hanahaki trope (flowers in the lungs/throat – unrequited love), and is both fluffy and a bit angsty. Also smut. A whole chapter with lots of teasing and dominance near the end.
> 
> 3\. Keep an eye for references to Norse mythology as I'm throwing loads in constantly. Like, every other paragraph in all honesty.
> 
> 4\. I love comments!! Send me comments!! I will reply to every single one of them!!!
> 
> 5\. Find me on Tumblr: http://goldtrimmedspectacle.tumblr.com/
> 
> 6\. Buy me a kofi? - https://www.ko-fi.com/A045L7I

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all copy will be reported without any prior warning.
> 
> Do not copy, steal or borrow anything from my work without permission.


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